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Title: The literature of kissing
        gleaned from history, poetry, fiction, and anecdote

Author: Charles C. Bombaugh

Release date: August 20, 2023 [eBook #71456]

Language: English

Original publication: Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1876

Credits: Tim Lindell, Turgut Dincer and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This file was produced from images generously made available by The Internet Archive)


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE LITERATURE OF KISSING ***





                                   THE
                          LITERATURE OF KISSING,
                               GLEANED FROM
                      HISTORY, POETRY, FICTION, AND
                                ANECDOTE.

                                    BY
                       C. C. BOMBAUGH, A.M., M.D.,
   AUTHOR OF “GLEANINGS FOR THE CURIOUS,” “THE BOOK OF BLUNDERS,” ETC.

            “Touch but my lips with those fair lips of thine,
            The kiss shall be thine own as well as mine.”

                                                  SHAKSPEARE.

                               PHILADELPHIA:
                          J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
                LONDON: 16 SOUTHAMPTON ST., COVENT GARDEN.
                                  1876.

       Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1875, by
                         J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.,
        In the Office of the Librarian of Congress at Washington.




[Illustration]




PREFACE.


From the time of the first kisses recorded in the book of Genesis,—the
kiss with which Jacob imposed upon the credulity of his blind old father
and defrauded his brother of the blessing intended for him, and that of
Jacob the lover when he met Rachel at the well,—to the present hour,
the custom of kissing has been so universally honored in the observance
that one would naturally expect to find in any well-regulated library a
formal treatise upon its manifold phases and expressions. Yet, with the
exception of a few insignificant monographs of the seventeenth century,
the curious inquirer would find upon the shelves nothing specially
devoted to a custom with which all of human kind, from the elect of the
children of men to the dwellers _in partibus infidelium_, are familiar.
To borrow a waggish saying, the knowledge of the art has been principally
transmitted from mouth to mouth. Herrenschmidius published his
“Osculogia” in 1630; Muller, “De Osculo Sancto,” in 1674; and Kempius,
“De Osculis,” in 1680. Boberg wrote upon the fashion of kissing among the
Hebrews, and Pfanner upon the kisses of the primitive Christians,—both in
Latin. But works of this character are inaccessible to general readers.
Those modern classics, the “Basia” of Secundus, and the “Baisers” of
Dorat and of Bonnefons, are readily attainable, both in the original and
in the form of translations and paraphrases.

Beyond this extremely limited range the literature of kissing is
scattered as widely as its practice. For the earlier presentment of a
custom favored in all ages, we must recur to the Bible. There only may we
raise “the barred visor of antiquity” for full and conclusive revelation;
and there shall we find that the kiss, in all the varied forms of which
it is susceptible, was recognized among ancient kindred, and lovers, and
friends, as an expression of affection or sympathy, as a symbol of joy
or sorrow, as a token of welcome or farewell, as a mark of reverence, or
reconciliation, or gratitude, or humility. There, likewise, shall we find
the kiss of hypocrisy, as noted in the case of Absalom on the eve of his
conspiracy; the sensual kiss, as referred to in the Proverbs; and the
spiritual kiss, of the Song of Solomon.

In the annals of the later periods of human passions and activities the
records of the custom are more widely diffused. Since the woman “which
was a sinner” washed the feet of the Master, with tears, wiped them
with her hair, and kissed them so humbly and with such affectionate
tenderness, millions of good Christians have done the same in their
hearts. Since the Emperor Justinian kissed the foot of the sovereign
pontiff Constantine, millions of the faithful in the mother church have
bowed their necks to kiss the embroidered cross on the slipper of the
Pope. Since “the sweet, soft murmur of a kiss of love” was first heard in
the groves and gardens of Judea, “a great multitude, which no man could
number,” have had recourse to the same token as seal to the indenture
of their own loves, have found in the same attraction another eloquence
than that of words, and in the retrospections of after-days have lingered
lovingly upon the memories of the same rainbow radiance, the same
celestial beam that from their own life smiled the clouds away. It is the
same charm, the same story,

  “Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always.”

In endless succession, from generation to generation, are the kisses
arising from the filial and fraternal relations, the interchanges of
affection and friendship, the meetings and the partings, the compliments
of esteem and the promptings of admiration, the outburst of grief
and the beguilement of treachery. Whether formulated by the cautious
prescripts of Mrs. Grundy and her disciples, exhibited in the bluff and
unconventional fashion of swaggering rustics, or quickened into life
with the emotional abruptness which in Brooklyn is termed “paroxysmal;”
whether consecrated only to the holiest affections, or peddled at
church fairs and festivals as a substitute for raffling; whether under
moonlight or gaslight, by the seaside or the fireside, it is still in
its diversified forms the one perennial beatitude, the one never-ending,
still-beginning delight, which “age cannot wither, nor custom stale;”

  “The young men’s vision, and the old men’s dream.”

Said Sydney Smith, as quoted in the course of the present volume, “We
have the memory of one we received in our youth, which lasted us forty
years, and we believe it will be one of the last things we shall think of
when we die.”

“I would often ask her,” says Farjeon, “being of an inquisitive turn
of mind, ‘Mother, what have you got for dinner to-day?’ ‘Bread and
Cheese and Kisses,’ she would reply merrily. Then I knew that one of our
favorite dishes was sure to be on the table, and I rejoiced accordingly.
And to this day, Bread and Cheese and Kisses bears for me in its simple
utterance a sacred and beautiful meaning. It means contentment; it means
cheerfulness; it means the exercise of sweet words and gentle thought; it
means Home!”

It is in the home-centre that we are first taught “such kisses as
belong to early days;” it is there that the maternal embrace proves an
efficacious restorative for infantile grievances.

  “Who was it caught me when I fell,
  And kissed the place to make it well?
                        My mother.”

The boy goes forth from the juvenile attractions of the Kiss-in-the-Ring
to the later allurements of the mistletoe bough; the youth of larger
growth finds exhilaration in the sportiveness that incites him to

  “Catch the white-handed nymphs in shady places,
  And woo sweet kisses from averted faces.”

As the years glide away, destiny leads him to

  “The overture kiss to the opera of love;”

while in the maturer days of manhood courtship brings the happy day when,
as a bridegroom, he meets his bride,

  “And claims her with a loving kiss.”

Then come the kisses of connubial and parental love, and, finally,

    “Life’s autumnal blossoms fall,
  And earth’s brown clinging lips impress
    The long cold kiss that waits us all.”

The observance of the custom, therefore, throughout life, and in all
the relations of life, presents a broad field for the inspirations
of the poet and the “situations” of the novelist; while in history,
tradition, legend, and story it furnishes an endless number of
charming and picturesque episodes. To gather together some of its
varied interpretations and exemplifications from the wide range of our
accumulated literature is the object of this volume. To recur to its
ancient as well as its modern phases, to re-awaken some of its historic
memories, to dwell briefly upon its poetic enchantments, to show its
employment in the drama and in fiction, in metaphor and in anecdote,
to exhibit its humorous side and its sorrowful side, to unveil the
strength of its sincerity and the peril of its treachery, is the purpose
of the editor. Inasmuch as the limitations of a duodecimo are too
disproportionate to such breadth and scope of illustration to permit
exhaustive treatment of our subject, the aim is to be selective and at
the same time comprehensive. In the preparation of a work to fill a
hiatus in our modern _Collectanea_, the difficulty which is constantly
encountered is that of exclusion. Much that is worthy of a place is
necessarily omitted, but the editor trusts that the materials which have
been appropriated will measurably supply the deficiency which has been
pointed out, and prove acceptable to a large class of readers. To those
who welcome the book it has only briefly to say, in the language of the
Eastern apologue, “I am not the rose, but I live with the rose, and so I
have become sweet.”




CONTENTS.


                                                 PAGE

  THE KISS IN HISTORY                               9

  THE KISS IN POETRY                               93

  THE KISS IN DRAMATIC LITERATURE                 191

  THE KISS IN FICTION                             225

  THE KISS IN HUMOROUS STORY AND ANECDOTE         273

  MISCELLANEOUS ASPECTS AND RELATIONS             321




[Illustration]




THE KISS IN HISTORY.


THE KISS IMPRIMIS.

Milton tells us in “Paradise Lost,” Book IV., how the pioneer lover
saluted the mother of the human race in the bowers of Eden:

                    “he, in delight
  Both of her beauty and submissive charms,
  Smiled with superior love, as Jupiter
  On Juno smiles, when he impregns the clouds
  That shed May flowers; and pressed her matron lips
  With kisses pure.”


SIGNIFICANCE AMONG THE HEBREWS.

Originally, in Oriental life, the act of kissing had a symbolical
character whose import was, in many respects, of greater breadth than
that of the custom in our day. Acts, as Dr. Beard, the German theologian,
remarks, speak no less—sometimes far more—forcibly than words. In the
early period of society, when the foundation was laid of most even of
our Western customs, action constituted a large portion of what we may
term human language, or the means of intercommunication between man and
man; because then words were less numerous, books unknown, the entire
machinery of speaking being in its rudimental and elementary state, less
developed and called into play; to say nothing of that peculiarity of
the Oriental character (if, indeed, it be not a characteristic of all
nations in primitive ages) which inclined men to general taciturnity,
with occasional outbreaks of fervid, abrupt, or copious eloquence. In
this language of action, a kiss, inasmuch as it was a bringing into
contact of parts of the body of two persons, was naturally the expression
and the symbol of affection, regard, respect, and reverence; and if
deeper source of its origin were sought for, it would, doubtless, be
found in the fondling and caresses with which the mother expresses her
tenderness for her babe. That the custom is of very early date, and very
varied in its form among the Hebrews, may be seen in numerous familiar
citations from Holy Writ.


DIVERSITIES IN THE BIBLE.


SALUTATION.

David ... fell on his face to the ground, and bowed himself three times;
and they [David and Jonathan] kissed one another, and wept one with
another, until David exceeded.—1 _Samuel_ xx. 41.

Greet all the brethren with a holy kiss.—1 _Thess._ v. 26.

Salute one another with a holy kiss.—_Romans_ xvi. 16.

[See also Exod. xviii. 7; 1 Cor. xvi. 20; 1 Pet. v. 14.]


VALEDICTION.

The Lord grant you that ye may find rest, each of you in the house of her
husband [Naomi to her daughters-in-law]. Then she kissed them; and they
lifted up their voice, and wept.—_Ruth_ i. 9.


RECONCILIATION.

So Joab came to the king, and told him: and when he had called for
Absalom, he came to the king, and bowed himself on his face to the
ground before the king: and the king kissed Absalom.—2 _Samuel_ xiv. 33.


SUBJECTION.

Kiss the Son, lest he be angry, and ye perish from the way, when his
wrath is kindled but a little.—_Psalm_ ii. 12.


APPROBATION.

Every man shall kiss his lips that giveth a right answer.—_Prov._ xxiv.
26.


ADORATION.

——All the knees which have not bowed unto Baal, and every mouth which
hath not kissed him.—1 _Kings_ xix. 18.

[See also Hosea xiii. 2.]

And stood at his feet behind him weeping, and began to wash his feet with
tears, and did wipe them with the hairs of her head, and kissed his feet,
and anointed them with the ointment.—_Luke_ vii. 38.


TREACHERY.

Now he that betrayed him gave them a sign, saying, Whomsoever I shall
kiss, that same is he: hold him fast.

And forthwith he came to Jesus, and said, Hail, Master; and kissed
him.—_Matt._ xxvi. 48, 49.

The kisses of an enemy are deceitful.—_Prov._ xxvii. 6.

[See also Prov. vii. 13.]


AFFECTION.

When Laban heard the tidings of Jacob his sister’s son, he ran to
meet him, and embraced him, and kissed him, and brought him to his
house.—_Gen._ xxix. 13.

Moreover he [Joseph] kissed all his brethren, and wept upon them.—_Gen._
xlv. 15.

And Joseph fell upon his father’s face, and wept upon him, and kissed
him.—_Gen._ l. 1.

[See also Gen. xxxi. 55, xxxiii. 4, xlviii. 10; Exod. iv. 27; Luke xv.
20; Acts xx. 37.]

A Hebrew commentator on Genesis xxix. 11 says that the Rabbins did
not permit more than three kinds of kisses, the kiss of reverence, of
reception, and of dismissal.

With reference to the expression of reverence or worship in the foregoing
quotations, it should be noted that to adore idols and to kiss idols mean
the same thing. Indeed, the word _adore_ signifies simply to carry the
hand _to the mouth_, that is, to kiss it to the idol. We still kiss the
hand in salutation. Various parts of the body are kissed to distinguish
the character of the adoration paid. Thus, to kiss the lips is to adore
the living breath of the person saluted; to kiss the feet or ground is
to humble one’s self in adoration; to kiss the garments is to express
veneration for whatever belongs to or touches the person who wears them.
Pharaoh tells Joseph, “Thou shalt be over my house, and upon thy mouth
shall all my people kiss,” meaning that they would reverence the commands
of Joseph by kissing the roll on which they were written. “Samuel
poured oil on Saul, and kissed him,” to acknowledge subjection to God’s
anointed. In the Hebrew state, this mode of expressing reverence arose
from the peculiar form of government under the patriarchal figure.


SYMBOLICAL EXPRESSION AMONG THE GREEKS AND ROMANS.


ANCIENT HISTORY AND POETRY COMMINGLED.

In Homer’s beautiful description of the parting of Hector from his wife
and child upon returning to the field of battle, occurs a touching
recital of paternal affection and solicitude (Iliad, vi.). The passage is
so beautiful that we quote it at length:

  “Thus having spoke, the illustrious chief of Troy
  Stretched his fond arms to clasp the lovely boy.
  The babe clung crying to his nurse’s breast,
  Scared at the dazzling helm and nodding crest;
  With secret pleasure each fond parent smiled,
  And Hector hastened to relieve his child,
  The glittering terrors from his brows unbound,
  And placed the beaming helmet on the ground,
  Then kissed the child, and, lifting high in air,
  Thus to the gods preferred a father’s prayer.

    “‘O thou! whose glory fills th’ ethereal throne,
  And all ye deathless powers, protect my son!
  Grant him, like me, to purchase just renown,
  To guard the Trojans, to defend the crown,
  Against his country’s foes the war to wage,
  And rise the Hector of the future age!
  So when, triumphant from successful toils,
  Of heroes slain he bears the reeking spoils,
  Whole hosts may hail him with deserved acclaim,
  And say, This chief transcends his father’s fame.’”

The grief of the venerable Priam upon learning of the death of his
favorite son, Hector, at the hands of Achilles, and his journey to
the Grecian camp to beg of Achilles the body of Hector for burial,
are portrayed with equal force (Iliad, xxiv.). The Trojan monarch,
prostrating himself before the warrior,

  “Embraced his knees, and bathed his hands in tears;
  Those direful hands his kisses pressed, imbrued
  E’en with the best, the dearest of his blood.”

In the course of his entreaty, which completely softens Achilles, the
suppliant says:

  “Think of thy father, and this face behold!
  See him in me, as helpless and as old!
  Though not so wretched: there he yields to me,
  The first of men in sovereign misery!
  Thus forced to kneel, thus grovelling to embrace
  The scourge and ruin of my realm and race;
  Suppliant my children’s murderer to implore,
  And kiss those hands yet reeking with their gore!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Virgil gives us a picture similar to that of Hector when bidding farewell
to his child. Æneas, having recovered from a dangerous wound, returns
to the combat with Turnus, first bestowing his blessing upon his son
Ascanius (Æneid, xii.):

  “Then with a close embrace he strained his son,
  And, kissing through his helmet, thus begun:
  ‘My son! from my example learn the war,
  In camps to suffer, and in fields to dare:
  But happier chance than mine attend thy care!
  This day my hand thy tender age shall shield,
  And crown with honors of the conquered field;
  Thou, when thy riper years shall send thee forth
  To toils of war, be mindful of thy worth:
  Assert thy birthright; and in arms be known
  For Hector’s nephew, and Æneas’ son.’”

Turning from the camp to the sweets of domestic life, we find in the same
charming poet (Georg. ii. 523) these lines:

  “His cares are eased with intervals of bliss:
  His little children, climbing for a kiss,
  Welcome their father’s late return at night;
  His faithful bed is crowned with chaste delight.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Xenophon says, in “Agesilaus” (v. 4), that it was a national custom with
the Persians to kiss whomsoever they honored. And Herodotus (i. 134),
in speaking of their manners and customs, says, “If Persians meet at any
time by accident, the rank of each party is easily discovered: if they
are of equal dignity, they salute each other on the mouth; if one is an
inferior, they only kiss the cheek; if there be a great difference in
situation, the inferior falls prostrate on the ground.” Respecting the
mode of salutation between relatives, the following passage from the
“Cyropædia” of Xenophon (i. 4) is worth transcribing:

“If I may be allowed to relate a sportive affair, it is said that when
Cyrus went away, and he and his relations parted, they took their leave,
and dismissed him with a kiss, according to the Persian custom,—for
the Persians practise it to this day,—and that a certain Mede, a very
excellent person, had been long struck with the beauty of Cyrus, and when
he saw Cyrus’s relations kiss him, he stayed behind, and, when the rest
were gone, accosted Cyrus, and said to him, ‘And am I, Cyrus, the only
one of all your relations that you do not know?’ ‘What!’ said Cyrus,
‘are you a relation?’ ‘Yes,’ said he. ‘This was the reason, then,’ said
Cyrus, ‘that you used to gaze at me; for I think I recollect that you
frequently did so.’ ‘I was very desirous,’ said he, ‘to salute you, but I
was always ashamed to do it.’ ‘But,’ said Cyrus, ‘you that are a relation
ought not to have been so.’ So, coming up to him, he kissed him. The
Mede, having received the kiss, is said to have, asked this question:
‘And is it a custom among the Persians to kiss relations?’ ‘It is so,’
said Cyrus, ‘when they see one another at some distance of time, or when
they part.’ ‘Then,’ said the Mede, ‘it seems now to be time for you to
kiss me again; for, as you see, I am just going away.’ So Cyrus, kissing
him again, dismissed him, and went his way. They had not gone very far
before the Mede came up with him again, with his horse all over in a
sweat; and Cyrus, getting sight of him, said, ‘What! have you forgotten
anything that you had a mind to say to me?’ ‘No, by Jove,’ said he, ‘but
I am come again at a distance of time.’ ‘Dear relation,’ said he, ‘it is
a very short time.’ ‘How a short one?’ said the Mede: ‘do you not know,
Cyrus, that the very twinkling of my eyes is a long time to be without
seeing you, you who are so lovely?’ Here Cyrus, from being in tears,
broke out into laughter, bid him go his way and take courage, adding that
in a little time he would be with him again, and that then he would be
at liberty to look at him, if he pleased, with steady eyes and without
twinkling.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The kiss among the ancients was an essential implement in the armory of
love. Virgil, for instance, uses it in the device by which Queen Dido
was to be inspired with a passion for Æneas. Venus, in the course of her
instructions to Cupid, says:

  “Thyself a boy, assume a boy’s dissembled face;
  That when, amid the fervor of the feast,
  The Tyrian hugs and fonds thee on her breast,
  And with sweet kisses in her arms constrains,
  Thou mayst infuse thy venom in her veins.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Horace, in the ode to Lydia, in which he gives such free expression to
his jealousy (Ode XIII.), refers with considerable point and feeling to
the osculatory attentions of his rival. The following translation is by
Bulwer-Lytton:

  “When thou the rosy neck of Telephus,
  The waxen arms of Telephus, art praising,
  Woe is me, Lydia, how my jealous heart
  Swells with the anguish I would vainly smother!

  “Then in my mind thought has no settled base,
  To and fro shifts upon my cheek the color,
  And tears that glide adown in stealth reveal
  By what slow fires mine inmost self consumeth.

  “I burn, whether he quarrel o’er his wine,
  Stain with a bruise dishonoring thy white shoulders,
  Or whether my boy-rival on thy lips
  Leave by a scar the mark of his rude kisses.

  “Hope not, if thou wouldst hearken unto me,
  That one so little kind prove always constant;
  Barbarous indeed, to wound sweet lips imbued
  By Venus with a fifth part of her nectar.[1]

  “Thrice happy, ay, more than thrice happy, they
  Whom one soft bond unbroken binds together;
  Whose love serene from bickering and reproach
  In life’s last moment finds the first that severs.”

The closing lines of an ode to Mæcenas (Lib. II. Ode XII.) are worth
noting:

  “Say, for all that Achæmenes boasted of treasure,
  All the wealth which Mygdonia gave Phrygia in tribute,
  All the stores of all Araby—say, wouldst thou barter
      One lock of Lycimnia’s bright hair?

  “When at moments she bends down her neck to thy kisses,
  Or declines them with coy but not cruel denial,
  Rather pleased if the prize be snatched off by the spoiler,
      Nor slow in reprisal sometimes.”

Literally, “when she turns to meet the ardent kisses, or with a gentle
cruelty denies what she would more delight to have ravished by the
petitioner; sometimes she is eager to snatch them herself.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the Latin Anthology is an ode to another Lydia, by an unknown poet,
but probably Gallus, which breathes throughout the rapturous idolatry of
the enamored writer. We have only space for these lines:

  “Unveil those rosy cheeks, o’erspread
  With blushes of the Tyrian red,
  And pout those coral lips of thine,
  And breathe the turtle’s kiss on mine;
  Deep on my heart you print that kiss,
  You melt my wildered soul in bliss.
  Ah, softly, girl! thy amorous play
  Has sucked my very blood away!
  Hide thy twin bosom fruit, just shown
  Milk-ripe above thy bursting zone;
  Such sweets, as India’s summer gale
  Wafts from her spice-beds, they exhale.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Ovid appropriates the kiss most effectively in his passages descriptive
of the endearments, the fascinations, the yearnings, and the transports
of love. Briseis in her letter to Achilles, begging him to return to the
Grecian camp, is made to say:

  “Oh that the Greeks would send me hence to try
  If I could make your stubborn heart comply!
  Few words I’d use; all should be sighs, and tears,
  And looks, and kisses, mixed with hopes and fears;
  My love like lightning through my eyes should fly,
  And thaw the ice which round your heart does lie;
  Sometimes my arms about your neck I’d throw;
  And then embrace your knees and humbly bow.
  There is more eloquence in tears and kisses
  Than in the smooth harangues of sly Ulysses.”[2]

In the letter of Sappho to her lover, Phaon, when he had forsaken her,
and she had resolved upon suicide, we have a picture of that “sorrow’s
crown of sorrow,” the remembrance in adversity of happier days:

  “Yet once your Sappho could your cares employ,
  Once in her arms you centred all your joy;
  Still all those joys to my remembrance move,
  For, oh, how vast a memory has love!
  My music then you could forever hear,
  And all my words were music to your ear;
  You stopped with kisses my enchanting tongue,
  And found my kisses sweeter than my song.
  The fair Sicilians now your soul inflame:
  Why was I born, ye gods, a Lesbian dame?”

A wife’s affection is shown in the letter of Laodanna to her husband at
Aulis with the Grecian fleet:

  “Yet while before the leaguer thou dost lie,
  Thy picture is some pleasure to my eye;
  There must be something in it more than art,
  ’Twere very thee, could it thy mind impart:
  I kiss the pretty idol, and complain,
  As if (like thee) ’twould answer me again.”

This pretty conceit, which the moderns have often copied from Ovid,
occurs in the epistle of Paris to Helen:

  “If you your young Hermione but kiss,
  Straight from her lips I snatch the envied bliss.”

In his “Art of Love” (Book I.) Ovid thus pursues his course of
instruction:

“Tears, too, are of utility: by tears you will move adamant. Make her,
if you can, to see your moistened cheeks. If tears shall fail you, for
indeed they do not always come in time, touch your eyes with your wet
hand. What discreet person will not mingle kisses with tender words?
Though she should not grant them, still take them ungranted. Perhaps
she will struggle at first, and will say, ‘You naughty man!’ Still, in
her struggling she will wish to be overcome. Only, let them not, rudely
snatched, hurt her tender lips, and take care that she may not be able to
complain that they have proved a cause of pain. He who has gained kisses,
if he cannot gain the rest as well, will deserve to lose even that which
has been granted him. How much is there wanting for unlimited enjoyment
after a kiss! Oh, shocking! ’twere clownishness, not modesty. Call it
violence, if you like; such violence is pleasing to the fair; they often
wish, through compulsion, to grant what they are delighted to grant.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Turning from Ovid to the Greek Anthology, we find this epigram:

  “The kiss that she left on my lip
    Like a dew-drop shall lingering lie:
  ’Twas nectar she gave me to sip,
    ’Twas nectar I drank in her sigh!

  “The dew that distilled in that kiss
    To my soul was voluptuous wine:
  Ever since it is drunk with the bliss,
    And feels a delirium divine.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Anacreon, in one of his odes, speaks of the heart flying to the lips; and
Plato, in a distich quoted by Aulus Gellius, tells us of the effect of a
kiss upon his susceptibility:

  “Whene’er thy nectared kiss I sip,
    And drink thy breath in melting twine,
  My soul then flutters to my lip,
    Ready to fly and mix with thine.”

Plato also wrote:

  “My soul, when I kissed Agathon, did start
  Up to my lips, just ready to depart.”

      “Oh! on that kiss my soul,
      As if in doubt to stay,
  Lingered awhile, on fluttering wing prepared
      To fly away.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Anacreon uses this figurative expression:

  “They tainted all his bowl of blisses,
  His bland desires and hallowed kisses.”

By the ancient expression “cups of kisses,” reference is most probably
made to a favorite gallantry among the Greeks and Romans of drinking
when the lips of their mistresses had touched the brim. Ben Jonson’s
oft-quoted verses to Celia, in which occur the lines—

  “Or leave a kiss within the cup,
  And I’ll not ask for wine,”—

are translated from Philostratus, a Greek poet of the second century.

Lucian has a conceit upon the same idea: “that you may at once both drink
and kiss.” And Meleager says:

  “Blest is the goblet, oh! how blest,
  Which Heliodora’s lips have pressed!
  Oh! might thy lips but meet with mine,
  My soul should melt away in thine.”

Agathias also says:

  “I love not wine; but thou hast power
  T’ intoxicate at any hour.
  Touch first the cup with thine own lip,
  Then hand it round for mine to sip,
  And temperance at once gives way;
  My sweet cup-bearer wins the day.
  That cup’s a boat which ferries over
  Thy kiss in safety to thy lover,
  And tells by its delicious flavor
  Plow much it revels in thy favor.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Longepierre, to give an idea of the luxurious estimation in which
garlands were held by the ancients, relates an anecdote of a frail
beauty, who, in order to gratify three lovers without leaving cause
for jealousy with any of them, gave a kiss to one, let the other drink
after her, and put a garland on the brow of the third; so that each was
satisfied with his favor, and flattered himself with the preference.

       *       *       *       *       *

In one of Anacreon’s odes we find the strong and beautiful phrase, “a lip
provoking kisses.”

  “Then her lip, so rich in blisses,
  Sweet petitioner for kisses.”

Tatius speaks of “lips soft and delicate for kissing;” and that grave
old commentator, Lambinus, in his notes upon Lucretius, tells us, with
all the authority of experience, that girls who have large lips kiss
infinitely sweeter than others!

       *       *       *       *       *

Æneas Sylvius, in his story of the loves of Euryalus and Lucretia, where
he particularizes the beauties of the heroine, describes her lips as
exquisitely adapted for biting.[3] And Catullus, in his poems (viii.),
asks, “Whom will you love now? Whose will you be called? Whom will
you kiss? Whose lips will you bite? But you, Catullus, be stubbornly
obdurate.” As Lamb has it:

  “Whose fondling care shalt thou avow?
    Whose kisses now shalt thou return?
  Whose lip in rapture bite? But thou,
    Hold, hold, Catullus, cold and stern.”

Or, as Elton renders it:

  “Whom wilt thou for thy lover choose?
  Whose shall they call thee, false one, whose?
  Who shall thy darted kisses sip,
  While thy keen love-bites scar his lip?
  But thou, Catullus, scorn to feel:
  Persist—and let thy heart be steel.”

Plautus alludes to this biting;[4] and Horace says (Ode XIII.), as
already quoted:

  “Or on thy lips the fierce fond boy
  Marks with his teeth the furious joy.”

Plutarch tells us that Flora, the mistress of Cn. Pompey, used to say,
in commendation of her lover, that she could never quit his arms without
giving him a bite. And Tibullus, in his confession of his illicit
love for Delia, the wife of another, and of his devices for covering
his tracks, says, among other things, “I gave her juices and herbs for
removing the livid marks which mutual Venus makes by the impress of the
teeth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Anacreon finds in the brevity of life arguments for the voluptuary as
well as for the moralist:

  “Can we discern, with all our lore,
  The path we’re yet to journey o’er?
  No, no, the walk of life is dark,
  ’Tis wine alone can strike a spark!
  Then let me quaff the foamy tide,
  And through the dance meandering glide;
  Let me imbibe the spicy breath
  Of odors chafed to fragrant death,
  Or from the kiss of love inhale
  A more voluptuous, richer gale.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Of the amatory writers who exhaust rhetoric to express the infinity of
kisses which they require from the lips of their mistresses, Catullus
takes the lead. In his famous verses to Lesbia (Carm. 5), he says:

“Let us live and love, my Lesbia, and a farthing for all the talk of
morose old sages! Suns may set and rise again; but we, when once our
brief light has set, must sleep through a perpetual night. Give me a
thousand kisses, then a hundred, then another thousand, then a second
hundred, then still another thousand, then a hundred. Then, when we shall
have made up many thousands, we will confuse the reckoning, so that we
ourselves may not know their amount, nor any spiteful person have it in
his power to envy us when he knows that our kisses were so many.”

Roman superstition recognized an occult and mischievous potency in the
sentiment of envy. Moreover, there was a prevalent notion that it excited
the envy of the gods to _count_ what gave one pleasure.

The following metrical versions of the foregoing are worth a place here.
The first is by George Lamb (1821):

  “Love, my Lesbia, while we live;
    Value all the cross advice
  That the surly graybeards give
    At a single farthing’s price.

  “Suns that set again may rise;
    We, when once our fleeting light,
  Once our day in darkness dies,
    Sleep in one eternal night.

  “Give me kisses thousand-fold,
    Add to them a hundred more;
  Other thousands still be told,
    Other hundreds, o’er and o’er.

  “But, with thousands when we burn,
    Mix, confuse the sums at last,
  That we may not blushing learn
    All that have between us past.

  “None shall know to what amount
    Envy’s due for so much bliss;
  None—for none shall ever count
    All the kisses we will kiss.”

The second is by C. A. Elton, whose translations of the classic poets
were first published in 1814:

  “Let us, my Lesbia, live and love;
  Though the old should disapprove;
  Let us rate their saws severe
  At the worth of a denier.
  Suns can set beneath the main,
  And lift their fated, orbs again,
  But we, when sets our scanted light,
  Must slumber in perpetual night.
  Give me, then, a thousand kisses;
  Add a hundred billing blisses;
  Give me a thousand kisses more;
  Then repeat the hundred o’er;
  Give me other thousand kisses;
  Give me other hundred blisses;
  And when thousands now are done,
  Let us confuse them every one,
  That we the number cannot know,
  And none that saw us kissing so
  Might glut his envious busy spleen
  By counting o’er the kisses that had been.”

In another poem addressed to Lesbia (Carm. 7), Catullus says:

“You ask how many kisses of yours, Lesbia, maybe enough for me; and more.
As the numerous sands that lie on the spicy shores of Cyrene, between the
oracle of sultry Jove and the sacred tomb of old Battus;[5] or as the
many stars that in the silence of night behold men’s furtive amours; to
kiss you with so many kisses is enough and more for madly fond Catullus;
such a multitude as prying gossips can neither count, nor bewitch with
their evil tongues.”

Lamb’s translation is as follows:

  “Thy kisses dost thou bid me count,
  And tell thee, Lesbia, what amount
  My rage for love and thee could tire,
  And satisfy and cloy desire?

  Many as grains of Libyan sand
  Upon Cyrene’s spicy land,
  From prescient Ammon’s sultry dome
  To sacred Battus’ ancient tomb:
  Many as stars that silent ken
  At night the stolen loves of men.
  Yes, when the kisses thou shalt kiss
  Have reached a number vast as this,
  Then may desire at length be stayed,
  And e’en my madness be allayed,
  Then when infinity defies
  The calculations of the wise,
  Nor evil voice’s deadly charm
  Can work the unknown number harm.”

Thomas Moore gives the following exceedingly free rendering of the answer
to the question:

  “As many stellar eyes of light
  As through the silent waste of night,
  Gazing upon the world of shade,
  Witness some secret youth and maid,
  Who, fair as thou, and fond as I,
  In stolen joys enamored lie,—
  So many kisses, ere I slumber,
  Upon those dew-bright lips I’ll number;
  So many vermil, honeyed kisses,
  Envy can never count our blisses:
  No tongue shall tell the sum but mine;
  No lips shall fascinate but thine!”

We cannot dismiss Catullus without one more specimen of his osculatory
exuberance. In his lines “To My Love” (Carm. 48), he says:

“Were I allowed to kiss your sweet eyes without stint, I would kiss on
and on up to three hundred thousand times; nor even then should I ever
have enough, not though our crop of kissing were thicker than the dry
ears of the cornfield.”

Or in Lamb’s metrical version:

  “If, all-complying, thou wouldst grant
    Thy lovely eyes to kiss, my fair,
  Long as I pleased, oh! I would plant
    Three hundred thousand kisses there.

  “Nor could I even then refrain,
    Nor satiate leave that fount of blisses,
  Though thicker than autumnal grain
    Should be our growing crop of kisses.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Martial, in his “Epigrams,” bestows a variety of attentions upon the
promiscuous custom of kissing in Rome, as he found it in his day. In an
epigram addressed to his friend Flaccus (xii. 98), he complains in very
strong and very amusing terms of the persistent salutes of a certain
class, who paid no heed whatever to times and seasons, places and
circumstances, but broke through all forms and guards and conventional
restraints.

On another occasion he pointed his invective in this manner (xii. 59):

“Rome gives, on one’s return after fifteen years’ absence, such a number
of kisses as exceeds those given by Lesbia to Catullus. Every neighbor,
every hairy-faced farmer, presses on you with a strongly-scented kiss.
Here the weaver assails you, there the fuller and the cobbler, who has
just been kissing leather; here the owner of a filthy beard, and a
one-eyed gentleman; there one with bleared eyes, and fellows whose mouths
are defiled with all manner of abominations. It was hardly worth while to
return.”

His epigram to Linus (vii. 95) is rarely exceeded in its sarcastic
severity. It closes in this manner:

                              ——“No doubt,
  Th’ icicles hanging at thy dog-like snout,
  The congealed snivel dangling on thy beard,
  Ranker than th’ oldest goat of all the herd.
  The nastiest mouth in town I’d rather greet,
  Than with thy flowing frozen nostrils meet.
  If therefore thou hast either shame or sense,
  Till April comes no kisses more dispense.”

The satirist thus pays his respects to a lady whose physical attractions
do not appear to have had much charm for his fastidious taste:

  “In vain, fond Philænis, thou woo’st my embrace:
  Bald, carrotty, one-eyed, thy tripartite grace!
  The wretch, poor Philænis, that would thee salute,
  Can never aspire to the buss of a brute.”

                                            (ii. 33.)

And again:

  “Why on my chin a plaster clapped?
  Besalved my lips that are not chapped?
  Philænis, why? The cause is this:
  Philænis, thee I will not kiss.”

                                 (x. 22).

The illustrious Postumus comes in for a share of repugnance in this
delicate fashion. We give the literal translation:

“I commend you, Postumus, for kissing me with only half your lip; you
may, however, if you please, withhold even the half of this half. Are you
inclined to grant me a boon still greater, and even inexpressible? Keep
this whole half entirely to yourself, Postumus.” (ii. 10.)

And elsewhere, thus:

“To some, Postumus, you give kisses, to some your right hand. ‘Which do
you prefer?’ you say: ‘choose.’ I prefer your hand.”

In another place (iii. 53) Martial addresses Chloe in this ungallant and
uncourtly style:

“I could do without your face, and your neck, and your hands, and your
limbs, and your bosom, and other of your charms. Indeed, not to fatigue
myself with enumerating each of them, I could do without you, Chloe,
altogether.”

This _brusquerie_ has been imitated by Thomas Moore in the following
manner:

  “I could resign that eye of blue,
    Howe’er its splendor used to thrill me;
  And e’en that cheek of roseate hue—
    To lose it, Chloe, scarce would kill me.

  “That snowy neck I ne’er should miss,
    However much I’ve raved about it;
  And sweetly as that lip can kiss,
    I _think_ I could exist without it.

  “In short, so well I’ve learned to fast,
    That sooth, my love, I know not whether
  I might not bring myself at last
    ——To do without you altogether.”

On the other hand, when it comes to the kisses of his favorite (xi. 8),
Martial indulges in the following exuberant fancy:

“The fragrance of balsam extracted from aromatic trees; the ripe odor
yielded by the teeming saffron; the perfume of fruits mellowing in their
winter repository; or of the flowery meadows in the vernal season; or
of silken robes of the empress from her Palatine wardrobes; of amber
warmed by the hand of a maiden; of a jar of dark Falernian wine, broken
and scented from a distance; of a garden that attracts the Sicilian
bees; of the alabaster jars of Cosmus, and the altars of the gods; of
the chaplet just fallen from the brow of the luxurious;—but why should
I mention all these things singly? not one of them is enough by itself;
mix all together,[6] and you have the perfume of the morning kisses of
my favorite. Do you want to know the name? I will only tell you of the
kisses. You swear to be secret. You want to know too much, Sabinus.”

One more selection from Martial (vi. 34) will suffice for this branch of
our subject:

“Give me, Diadumenus, close kisses. ‘How many?’ you say. You bid me count
the waves of the ocean, the shells scattered on the shores of the Ægean
Sea, the bees that wander on Attic Hybla, or the voices and clappings
that resound in the full theatre when the people suddenly see the
countenance of the emperor. I should not be content even with as many as
Lesbia, after many entreaties, gave to the witty Catullus: he wants but
few who can count them.”

The following imitation was written by Sir C. Hanbury Williams:

  “Come, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses,
    For sweeter sure girl never gave;
  But why, in the midst of my blisses,
    Do you ask me how many I’d have?

  “I’m not to be stinted in pleasure;
    Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind,
  For, while I love thee above measure,
    To numbers I’ll ne’er be confined.

  “Count the bees that on Hybla are playing;
    Count the flowers that enamel its fields;
  Count the flocks that on Tempe are straying;
    Or the grain that rich Sicily yields.

  “Go number the stars in the heaven;
    Count how many sands on the shore:
  When so many kisses you’ve given,
    I still shall be craving for more.

  “To a heart full of love let me hold thee,
    To a heart which, dear Chloe, is thine;
  With my arms I’ll forever enfold thee,
    And twist round thy limbs like a vine.

  “What joy can be greater than this is?
    My life on thy lips shall be spent;
  But the wretch that can number his kisses
    With few will be ever content.”


TRACES IN ENGLISH HISTORY.

Kissing appears to have been the usual method of salutation in England in
former times. A Greek traveller, named Chalondyles, who visited Britain
five centuries ago, says:

“As for English females and children, their customs are liberal in the
extreme. For instance, when a visitor calls at a friend’s house, his
first act is to kiss his friend’s wife; he is then a duly-installed
guest. Persons meeting in the street follow the same custom, and no one
sees anything improper in the action.”

Another Greek traveller of a century later, also adverts to this
osculatory custom. He says:

“The English manifest much simplicity and lack of jealousy in their
customs as regards females; for not only do members of the same family
and household kiss them on the lips with complimentary salutations
and enfolding of the arms round the waist, but even strangers, when
introduced, follow the same mode, and it is one which does not appear to
them in any degree unbecoming.”

Chaucer often alludes to it. Thus, the Frere in the Sompnour’s Tale, upon
the entrance of the mistress of the house into the room where her husband
and he were together,

            “ariseth up ful curtisly,
  And hire embraceth in his armes narwe,
  And kisseth hire swete and chirketh as a sparwe
  With his lippes.”

Robert de Brunne (1303) says that the custom formed part of the ceremony
of drinking healths:

  “That sais wasseille drinkis of the cup,
  Kiss and his felow he gives it up.”

In Hone’s “Year-Book” occurs the following passage:

“Another specimen of our ancient manners is seen in the French embrace.
The gentleman, and others of the male sex, lay hands on the shoulders,
and touch the side of each other’s cheek; but on being introduced to
a lady, they say to her father, brother, or friend, _Permettez moi_,
and salute each of her cheeks.... And was not this custom in England
in Elizabeth’s reign? Let us read one of the epistles of the learned
Erasmus, which, being translated, is in part as follows:

“‘Although, Faustus, if you knew the advantages of Britain, truly you
would hasten thither with wings to your feet; and, if your gout would
not permit, you would wish you possessed the wings of Dædalus. For just
to touch on one thing out of many here, there are lasses with heavenly
faces, kind, obliging, and you would far prefer them to all your Muses.
There is, besides, a practice never to be sufficiently commended. If you
go to any place, you are received with a kiss by all; if you depart on
a journey, you are dismissed with a kiss; if you return, the kisses are
exchanged. Do they come to visit you, a kiss is the first thing; do they
leave you, you kiss them all around. Do they meet you anywhere, kisses in
abundance. In short, wherever you turn, there is nothing but kisses. Ah,
Faustus, if you had once tasted the tenderness, the fragrance of these
kisses, you would wish to stay in England, not for ten years only, but
for life.”

This unctuous expatiation of the far-famed Dutchman is in rather broad
contrast with the stern reprobation of John Bunyan, who says, in his
“Grace Abounding:”

“The common salutation of women I abhor; it is odious to me in whomsoever
I see it. When I have seen good men salute those women that they have
visited, or that have visited them, I have made my objection against it;
and when they have answered that it was but a piece of civility, I have
told them that it was not a comely sight. Some, indeed, have urged the
holy kiss; but then I have asked them why they have made balks? why they
did salute the most handsome, and let the ill-favored ones go?”

More than a century before this decided expression of the great
allegorist, Richard Whytford had said, in his “Type of Perfection” (1532):

“It becometh not, therefore, the personnes religious to follow _the
manere of secular personnes_, that in theyr congresses or commune
metynges, or departyngs, done use to kysse, take hands, or such other
touchings that good religious-personnes shulde utterly avoyde.”

In Collet’s “Relics of Literature” maybe found this suggestive paragraph:

“Dr. Pierius Winsemius, historiographer to their High Mightinesses the
States of Friesland, in his _Chronijck van Frieslandt_, 1622, tells
us that the pleasant practice of kissing was utterly ‘unpractised and
unknown’ in England till the fair princess Ronix (Rowena), the daughter
of King Hengist of Friesland, ‘pressed the beaker with her lipkens, and
saluted the amorous Vortigern with a husjen (a little kiss).’”

But, whether this Anglo-Saxon incident be true or mythical, it is certain
that in the time of Cardinal Wolsey, who lived cotemporaneously with
Erasmus, from whom we have quoted, the osculatory reputation of the
English was widely spread. Cavendish, the biographer of Wolsey, says, in
reference to a visit at the château of M. Créqui, a distinguished French
nobleman:

“Being in a fair great dining chamber, I awaited my Lady’s coming; and
after she came thither out of her own chamber, she received me most
gently, like one of noble estate, having a train of twelve gentlewomen.
And when she with her train came all out, she said to me, ‘Forasmuch as
ye be an Englishman, whose custom is in your country to kiss all ladies
and gentlewomen without offence, and _although it be not so here_ in this
realm [France, _temp._ Henry VIII.], yet will I be so bold to kiss you,
and so shall all my maidens.’ By means whereof, I kissed my lady and all
her women.”

When Bulstrode Whitelock was at the court of Queen Christina of Sweden,
as ambassador from Oliver Cromwell, he waited on her on May-day, to
invite her to “take the air, and some little collation he had provided as
her humble servant.” She came with her ladies; and “both in supper-time
and afterwards,” being “full of pleasantness and gayety of spirits, among
other frolics, commanded him to teach her ladies _the English mode of
salutation_, which, after some pretty defences, their lips obeyed, and
Whitelock most readily.”

In a curious book published in London in 1694, entitled “The Ladies’
Dictionary; being a General Entertainment for the Fair Sex,” the author,
who deals with the fashions of the time, remarks under the article
“Kissing,” as follows:

“But kissing and drinking both are now grown (it seems) to be a greater
custom amongst us than in those days with the Romans. Nor am I so austere
to forbid the use of either, both which, though the one in surfeits, the
other in adulteries, may be abused by the vicious; yet contrarily at
customary meetings and laudable banquets, they by the nobly disposed, and
such whose hearts are fixed upon honor, may be used with much modesty and
continence.”

This osculatory custom seems to have disappeared about the time of
the Restoration. Peter Heylin says it had for some time before been
unfashionable in France. When he visited that country, in 1625, he
thought it strange and uncivil that the ladies should turn away from the
proffer of a salutation; and he indignantly exclaims “that the chaste and
innocent kiss of an English gentlewoman is more in heaven than their best
devotions.” Its abandonment in England might have formed part of that
French code of politeness which Charles II. introduced on his return.
Apropos of this, we may here quote a letter of Rustic Sprightly to the
“Spectator” (No. 240):

    “MR. SPECTATOR,

    “I am a country gentleman, of a good, plentiful estate, and
    live as the rest of my neighbors, with great hospitality. I
    have been ever reckoned among the ladies the best company in
    the world, and have access as a sort of favorite. I never came
    in public but I saluted them, though in great assemblies, all
    around; where it was seen how genteelly I avoided hampering my
    spurs in their petticoats, whilst I moved amongst them; and
    on the other side how prettily they curtsied and received me,
    standing in proper rows, and advancing as fast as they saw
    their elders, or their betters, dispatched by me. But so it
    is, MR. SPECTATOR, that all our good breeding is of late lost
    by the unhappy arrival of a courtier, or town gentleman, who
    came lately among us. This person, whenever he came into a
    room, made a profound bow and fell back, then recovered with
    a soft air, and made a bow to the next, and so to one or two
    more, and then took the gross of the room by passing by them
    in a continued bow till he arrived at the person he thought
    proper particularly to entertain. This he did with so good a
    grace and assurance that it is taken for the present fashion;
    and there is no young gentlewoman within several miles of this
    place has been kissed ever since his first appearance among us.
    We country gentlemen cannot begin again and learn these fine
    and reserved airs; and our conversation is at a stand till we
    have your judgment for or against kissing by way of civility or
    salutation, which is impatiently expected by your friends of
    both sexes, but by none so much as

                         “Your humble servant,

                                                 “RUSTIC SPRIGHTLY.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The custom of salutation by kissing appears to have prevailed in Scotland
about 1637. It is incidentally noticed in the following extract from
“Memoirs of the Life of Tames Mitchell, of Dykes, in the Parish of
Ardrossan (Ayrshire), written by himself,” Glasgow, 1759, p. 85; a rare
tract of 111 pages:

“The next business (as I spake before) was the Lord’s goodness and
providence towards me, in that particular, with Mr. Alexander Dunlop,
our minister, when he fell first into his reveries and distractions of
groundless jealousy of his wife with sundry gentlemen, and of me in
special. First, I have to bless God on my part he had not so much as a
presumption (save his own fancies) of my misbehavior in any sort; for,
as I shall be accountable to that great God, before whose tribunal I
must stand and give an account at that great day, I was not only free
of all actual villany with that gentlewoman his wife, but also of all
scandalous misbehavior either in private or public: yea, further, as I
shall be saved at that great day, I did not so much as kiss her mouth in
courtesy (so far as my knowledge and memory serves me) seven years before
his jealousy brake forth: this was the ground of no small peace of my
mind, ... and last of all, the Lord brought me clearly off the pursuit,
and since he and I has keeped general fashions of common civility to
this day, _12 December, 1637_. I pray God may open his eyes and give him
a sight of his weakness and insufficiency both one way and other. Now
praise, honor, glory, and dominion be to God only wise (for this and all
other his providences and favors unto me), now and ever. Amen.

“I subscribe with my hand the truth of this,

                                                         “JAMES MITCHELL.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Relative to kissing among men, Sir Walter Scott has the following passage
in “Waverley” (ch. x.):

“At his first address to Waverley, it would seem that the hearty pleasure
he felt to behold the nephew of his friend had somewhat discomposed the
stiff and upright dignity of the Baron of Bradwardine’s demeanor, for the
tears stood in the old gentleman’s eyes, when, having first shaken Edward
heartily by the hand in the English fashion, he embraced him _à-la-mode
Françoise_, and kissed him on both sides of his face; while the hardness
of his gripe, and the quantity of Scotch snuff which his _accolade_
communicated, called corresponding drops of moisture to the eyes of his
guest.”

In “Rob Roy” Sir Walter also says (ch. xxxvi.):

“A boat waited for us in a creek beneath a huge rock, manned by four
lusty Highland rowers; and our host took leave of us with great
cordiality and even affection. Betwixt him and Mr. Jarvie, indeed,
there seemed to exist a degree of mutual regard, which formed a strong
contrast to their different occupations and habits. After kissing each
other very lovingly, and when they were just in the act of parting, the
Bailie, in the fulness of his heart, and with a faltering voice, assured
his kinsman that ‘if ever a hundred pund, or even twa hundred, would
put him or his family in a settled way, he need but just send a line to
the Saut-Market;’ and Rob, grasping his basket-hilt with one hand, and
shaking Mr. Jarvie’s heartily with the other, protested ‘that if ever
anybody should affront his kinsman, an he would but let him ken, he would
stow his lugs out of his head, were he the best man in Glasgow.’”

Evelyn, in his “Diary and Correspondence,” writing to Mrs. Owen, says:

“Sir J. Shaw did us the honor of a visit on Thursday last, when it was
not my hap to be at home, for which I was very sorry. I met him since
casually in London, and kissed him there unfeignedly.”

And Charles Dickens, in “Little Dorrit,” gives us this amusing paragraph:

“‘You will draw upon us to-morrow, sir,’ said Mr. Flintwich, with a
business-like face, at parting.

“‘My cabbage,’ returned Mr. Blandois, taking him by the collar with both
hands, ‘I’ll draw upon you; have no fear. Adieu, my Flintwich. Receive at
parting’—here he gave him a southern embrace, and kissed him soundingly
on both cheeks—‘the word of a gentleman! By a thousand thunders, you
shall see me again.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

As a token of affection between father and son, the kiss, of course, has
prevailed from time immemorial. Wickliffe, in his quaint rendering of the
Bible, thus translates one of the earliest recorded instances, that of
Isaac and Jacob (Gen. xxvii. 26, 27):

“Gyve to me a cosse, son myn. He come near and cossed him.”

But the preference in most cases, it must be confessed, is that of the
young English sailor in Congreve’s “Love for Love.” On his return, Ben
dutifully seeks his father:

“_Sir Sampson._ My son Ben! Bless thee, my dear boy; thou art heartily
welcome.

“_Ben._ Thank you, father; and I’m glad to see you.

“_Sir S._ Odsbud, and I’m glad to see thee. Kiss me, boy; kiss me again
and again, dear Ben. [_Kisses him._]

“_Ben._ So, so; enough, father. Mess, I’d rather kiss these gentlewomen.

“_Sir S._ And so thou shalt,” etc.

And so he does, with right good will and alacrity.


MEMORABLE KISSES.

That was a wonderful kiss which Fatima received from her lover:

  “Last night when some one spoke his name,
  From my swift blood that went and came,
  A thousand little shafts of flame
  Were shivered in my narrow frame.
  Oh, love! oh, fire! Once he drew
  With one long kiss my whole soul through
  My lips—as sunlight drinketh dew.”[7]

Then there was the precious kiss which Margarida gave her troubadour
lover, when “she stretched out her arms and sweetly embraced him in the
love-chamber,” which coming to the knowledge of her husband (Raimon de
Roussillon), he gave her the troubadour’s heart to eat, disguised as a
savory morsel. And there was Francesca’s kiss, so sweet and yet so sad,
so guilty and so pure, when trembling Paolo kissed her and they read
no more that day. And there are the kisses that Antony wasted a world
so gladly for, “on a brow of Egypt,”—or rather, we suspect, on lips of
Egypt,—and Othello’s farewell kisses, which, tender and heart-broken as
they were, had no magic in them to redeem poor Desdemona’s life. Who does
not remember that grand kiss of Coriolanus—

  “Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!”—

which exhibits such a world of character and passion? and Romeo’s dying
kiss in the vault of the Capulets? and the famous kiss of Bassanio? Then
there is the kiss Queen Margaret gave Alain Chartier, the memory of
which is still fresh after three centuries have passed away. He was a
poet, and the ugliest man in France. The last of his race died in Paris
in November, 1863. The queen with her maids found him asleep one day,
and bent over him and kissed his dreaming lips. “I kiss not the man,”
she said; “I kiss the soul that sings.” Another poet, the countryman of
Chartier, had, two centuries later, the honor of being publicly kissed
in the stage-box by the young and lovely Countess de Villars; but in
Voltaire’s case the lady gave the osculatory salute not of her own free
will, but in obedience to the commands of the _claqueurs_ in the pit, mad
with enthusiasm for the poet’s “Merope.” Then there is the kiss which
the fresh cheek of young John Milton received, during his college days,
from the lips of the high-born Italian beauty, and the kisses of Laurence
Sterne, concerning which he says, “For my own part, I would rather kiss
the lips I love than dance with all the graces of Greece, after bathing
themselves in the springs of Parnassus. Flesh and blood for me, with an
angel in the inside.”

Here is a white rose that has not faded through three hundred years,—the
white rose sent by a Yorkist lover to his Lancaster inamorata:[8]

  “If this fair rose offend thy sight,
    Placed in thy bosom bare,
  ’Twill blush to find itself less white,
    And turn Lancastrian there.

  “But if thy ruby lips it spy,
    As kiss it thou mayst deign,
  With envy pale ’twill lose its dye,
    And Yorkist turn again.”

It is a pity that we do not know who plucked that rose with such
courtly grace. The lines, like “Chevy Chase,” “The Nut-brown Maid,” and
“Allan-a-Dale,” are a _filius nullius_, and, like many other anonymous
waifs which have floated down to us, could, just as well as not, have
carried a name on to immortality. What sort of a kiss was it that sweet
Amy Robsart’s friend Leicester placed upon the lips of Queen Bess, and
which, according to a chronicle of the time, “she took right heartilie”?
It was certainly a bold proceeding “before folks,” considering who the
parties were. The kiss that Chastelard asked of Mary Beaton was a notable
one. Said the gallant Frenchman:

  “Kiss me with some slow, heavy kiss,
  That plucks the heart out at the lips.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When the Cardinal John of Lorraine was presented to the Duchess of
Savoy, she gave him her hand to kiss, greatly to the indignation of
the churchman. “How, madam!” exclaimed he: “am I to be treated in this
manner? I kiss the queen, my mistress, and shall I not kiss you, who
are only a duchess?” and without more ado he, despite the resistance of
the proud little Portuguese princess, kissed her thrice on the mouth
before he released her with an exultant laugh. The doughty cardinal was
apparently of one mind with Sheldon, who thought that “to kiss ladies’
hands after their lips, as some do, is like little boys who, after they
eat the apple, fall to the paring.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The proud and pompous Constable of Castile, on his visit to the English
court soon after the accession of James I., we are told, was right well
pleased to bestow a kiss on Anne of Denmark’s lovely maids of honor,
“according to the custom of the country, and any neglect of which is
taken as an affront.”

       *       *       *       *       *

When Charles II. was making his triumphal progress through England,
certain country ladies who were presented to him, instead of kissing
the royal hands, in their simplicity held up their pretty lips to be
kissed by the king,—a blunder no one would more willingly excuse than the
red-haired lover of pretty Nell Gwynn.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the excommunicated German emperor Henry IV. had been humbled by
three days of penance, barefoot and fasting, in the month of January,
before the palace of Pope Gregory VII., he was admitted to “the
superlative honor” of kissing the pontiff’s toe. This, perhaps, was no
greater humiliation than that of the haughty Doge, who, after seeing
Genoa bombarded by the fleet of Louis XIV. on account of the assistance
he had given to the Algerines, was reduced to the indignity of going to
Versailles to kiss the hand which had given his city to the flames.

       *       *       *       *       *

Marie Antoinette frequently shocked the etiquette of her day at the
French court. Once, upon receiving the Austrian ambassador, Count
von Mercy, she advanced to meet him, and reached her hand to him,
allowing him to press it to his lips. Of course Madame de Noailles was
horror-stricken. The kissing of the queen’s hand was a state ceremonial,
and inadmissible at a private interview.

A pleasanter incident at the court of this queen is thus related by
Madame Campan:

“Franklin appeared at court in the costume of an American husbandman:
his hair straight and without powder, his round hat, and coat of brown
cloth, formed a strong contrast with the spangled and embroidered coats,
the powdered and pomatumed head-dresses, of the courtiers of Versailles.
This novelty charmed all the lively imaginations of the French ladies.
They gave elegant fêtes to Doctor Franklin, who united the fame of one of
the most skilful physicians [Madame Campan was led into this mistake by
Franklin’s title of doctor] to the patriotic virtues which induced him to
take the noble rôle of apostle of liberty. I was present at one of these
fêtes, where the most beautiful (the Comtesse de Polignac) among three
hundred ladies was chosen to go and place a crown of laurel on the white
hair of the American philosopher, and kiss both cheeks of the old man.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Tom Hood once asked whether Hannah More had ever been kissed,—that is
to say, by a man. It is almost impossible to conceive of such a thing;
and yet it has been asserted by one of the authors of the “Rejected
Addresses.” But to think of her having been kissed “on the sly,” and in
church-time! Horace Smith distinctly affirms that, on a certain occasion,

  “Sidney Morgan was playing the organ,
    While behind the vestry door,
  Horace Twiss was snatching a kiss
    From the lips of Hannah More!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Chevalier Bunsen, who rose from a humble position in life to great honor,
was a man of vast _savoir_ but little erudition. As a theologian, the
character to which he most aspired, he was severely criticised by the
celebrated Dr. Merle d’Aubigné. The two savans met at Berlin at the
Evangelical Alliance held several years ago. Bunsen kissed Merle; of
course the polite Genevan could but return the compliment. Great was the
ado about the “kiss of reconciliation,” as the Germans called it, much to
the annoyance of Dr. Merle, who had no idea of compromising the solemn
writers of theology by a kiss! Besides, he said, he preferred the English
custom in kissing to the German. A delicate insinuation, that; but the
professor meant nothing wrong.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the famous Brooklyn trial, Tilton _versus_ Beecher, in which the world
was favored with some extraordinary revelations respecting the ethics and
æsthetics of modern osculation, the defendant, Mr. Beecher, while on the
witness-stand, testified to his singularly varied experiences. In the
course of his testimony, he said:

“Mrs. Moulton then came in; she came to me and said, ‘Mr. Beecher, I
don’t believe the stories they are telling about you; I believe you are
a good man.’ I looked up and said, ‘Emma Moulton, I am a good man;’
she then bent over and kissed me on the forehead; it was a kiss of
inspiration, but I did not think it proper to return it.”

When subsequently asked what he meant by a kiss of inspiration, he
replied:

“I meant—well, it was a token of confidence; it was a salutation that
did not belong to the common courtesy of life: neither was it a kiss of
pleasure, or anything of that kind, but it was, as I sometimes have seen
it in poetry—if you will excuse me—it was—it seemed to me, a holy kiss.”

_Q._ “You have said something about your not returning it?”

_A._ “Well, sir, I felt—I felt so deeply grateful that if I had returned
the kiss, I might have returned it with an enthusiasm that would have
offended her delicacy; it was not best, under the circumstances, that she
and I should kiss.”

This led the newspapers to ask for the interpretation of a kiss which
Mr. Beecher had previously characterized as “paroxysmal.” It was
comparatively easy even for people who were accustomed to do their
kissing without analysis to comprehend the other varieties which had
been introduced during the progress of the trial, such as the impulsive
kiss, the enthusiastic kiss, the holy kiss, the kiss of reconciliation,
the kiss of grace, mercy, and peace, and the kiss mutual. But the kiss
“inspirational” and the kiss “paroxysmal” were likely to be understood
only by those who remembered the story of the good old Methodist deacon.
The young people of the church were in the habit of playing games whose
forfeits were kisses; but the pious old gentleman was much troubled about
it, and said that he was not so much opposed to kissing if they did not
kiss _with an appetite_.

The Tilton-Beecher case evoked from the newspaper writers an infinite
amount of comment. Among those whose views attracted marked attention was
Mrs. Jane G. Swisshelm, who said, in the Chicago “Tribune:”

“We can all see the impropriety of verbal declarations of passion in such
cases; and how much more unsafe any act bearing such interpretation!
Wherever men and women meet in friendly or business relations, one
or both must be constantly mindful of the differences and dangers of
the sex,—must guard looks, words, and actions, and in no moment of
overwrought sympathy can the stern barriers of decorum be safely broken
down. Before kissing Mr. Beecher, Mrs. Moulton should have waited until
he had taken that powder, until it had done its work and the undertaker
had the body ready for burial. Only in his coffin is it safe for even ‘a
section of the day of judgment,’ in the shape of a woman, to kiss any one
man in a thousand. There seems to be no room for doubt that she is, or
was, a perfectly upright woman; but her childish act shows the atmosphere
in which these men have been living,—shows the unconscious steps by which
they passed from virtue to vice,—and ought to awaken all lovers of virtue
to a more careful guard of her outside defences. Chastity is not the
natural condition of the race, but the very opposite, and it can only be
secured by ages of culture and constant vigilance. It is a something to
be acquired and maintained through grace and watchfulness, and those who
open doors through which the enemy enters and causes the fall of others
are responsible for their negligence and mistaken confidence.”

This judgment brought out some humorous responses. A lady thus expressed
her indignation in the “Graphic:”

“I never saw Mrs. Swisshelm, thank goodness; but what a perfectly
ridiculous old creature she must be! According to her own account, no
live man could be found who would venture to kiss her, and so she was
obliged to go and unscrew a dead man’s coffin and kiss him. I never heard
of anything so dreadful in the whole course of my life.

“Mrs. Swisshelm’s letter is enough for me. I can understand just what a
dreadful old person she must be. She wears trousers, I am told, besides
that perfectly preposterous garment, the ‘chemiloon.’ If I was a man, I
would no more kiss such a woman than I would kiss a pair of tongs that
had been left out over-night in a snowbank.

“Kissing, when done innocently, is as innocent as strawberries-and-cream,
and as nice. If Mrs. Swisshelm could only grow young and pretty, and take
off her trousers and dress like a Christian, she would soon change her
mind about kissing. Her letter is the expression of a cross old woman’s
envious mind, and she ought to be ashamed of herself.”

Another writer, who objected to such forcibly expressed and sweeping
opposition to kissing, said, in the “Inter-Ocean:”

“We believe in temperance, but not in total abstinence, so far as
this business is concerned. Mrs. Swisshelm takes credit to herself
for carefully avoiding kisses during her protracted life. To this she
attributes, in part, her longevity and general heartiness. In one
instance only did Mrs. Swisshelm deviate from this rule. It was in a
hospital. A poor boy had been suffering long and much, and she had
visited and cared for him. One day when she came in she found him dead
and in his coffin. Then the law was suspended for a moment, and, bending
her head, she kissed him, satisfied that he had passed beyond the thrill
of an unholy thought thereat. A moment after, she bethought herself
that others were in the room to whom the kiss might prove unprofitable,
and for a second she upbraided herself for her foolish fervor; but an
examination proved that these fears were groundless, for the others
were dead also. This is the story as we gain it second-hand. We do not
sympathize with this sentiment. If the poor boy needed a kiss at all, he
needed it before his life had gone out and left the body only a clog. A
kick or a kiss is equally unimportant to a piece of inanimate clay. The
fact that there may have been too much kissing in high life of late years
does not alter the fact that osculatory salutes are very good things in
the family.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The late Father Taylor, of the Seamen’s Bethel at Boston, narrates the
following incident:

“While in Palestine, I went out one evening, and sat upon the grass
on what was thought to be the hill Calvary. I lay down, and, with my
arms under my head, looked up at the stars and meditated on what had
happened on that sacred spot. With pain I suddenly remembered a man in
my far-distant home who had always been hostile to me. I felt that my
feelings also had not been right towards him, and I told my Lord that
if I lived to get home I would see that man and ask his forgiveness.
It was permitted me in due time to reach home. The incident had faded
from my mind, when, one day, walking in Exchange Street, I saw that man
approaching. My old feeling returned. I passed him without a sign; but
just then I remembered Calvary, and turned to look after him. To my
surprise, he also was turning. I went back to him, threw my arms about
him, and kissed him! and I felt better.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Herr Hackländer, writing on the subject of osculation, says:

“There are three kisses by which the human race are blest: the first is
that which the mother presses on the new-born infant’s head; the second,
that which the newly-wedded bride bestows on your lips; the third, that
with which love or friendship closes your eyes when your career is ended.”

After which rhetorical flourish he adds:

“But I, more blest than other mortals, have to boast of a fourth kiss of
bliss, that of Father Radetzky!” Hackländer had written a description
of the battle of Novara, which brought him, among other distinctions, a
_kiss_ from the old field-marshal.

       *       *       *       *       *

Turning back to mediæval history, we find an amusing incident in the
career of Charles the Simple, of France. The viking Rollo, having been
banished from Norway by Harold, proceeded southward to conquer a new
domain. Entering the mouth of the Seine, he took possession of Rouen,
where he spent the winter of each year, employing the summer in ravaging
France, till at last the king, Charles the Simple, as the only hope of
obtaining peace, promised to give him the province of Neustria as a fief,
provided he would become a Christian.

Rollo was baptized at Rouen, in 912. He had then to pay homage to King
Charles by kneeling before him, kissing his foot, and swearing to pay
him allegiance. Rollo took the oath, but nothing would induce him to
perform the rest of the ceremony, and he appointed one of his followers
to do homage in his stead. The Northman, as proud as his master, wilfully
misunderstood, and, instead of kneeling, lifted the king’s foot up to
reach his mouth, so as to upset king and throne together, amid the rude
laughter of his countrymen.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the famous crusade of Godfrey de Bouillon, early in the eleventh
century, was nearing its successful issue, Tancred, with a few other
knights, was the first to come in sight of Jerusalem. When the Crusaders
beheld the Holy City, the object of all their hopes and toils, they all
at once fell down on their knees, weeping and giving thanks, and even
kissing the sacred earth, and, as they rose, hymns of praise were sung by
the whole army. So when Columbus and his followers stepped on the beach
of San Salvador, all knelt down, reverently kissing the ground, with
tears and thanks to God.

       *       *       *       *       *

Jean Paul Frederic Richter, in his “Autobiography,” thus describes a
thrilling event in his life’s history:

MY FIRST KISS.

As earlier in life, on the opposite church-bench, so I could but
fall in love with Catharine Bärin, as she sat always above me on the
school-bench, with her pretty, round, red, smallpox-marked face,—her
lightning eyes,—the pretty hastiness with which she spoke and ran. In the
school carnival, that took in the whole forenoon succeeding fast nights,
and consisted in dancing and playing, I had the joy to perform the
irregular hop dance, that preceded the regular, with her. In the play,
“_How does your neighbor please you?_” where upon an affirmative answer
they are ordered to kiss, and upon a contrary there is a calling out,
and in the midst of accolades all change places, I ran always near her.
The blows were like gold-beaters’ by which the pure gold of my love was
beaten out, and a continual change of places, as she always forbid me the
court, and I always called her to the court, was managed.

All these malicious occurrences (_desertiones malitiosæ_) could not
deprive me of the blessedness of meeting her daily, when with her
snow-white apron and her snow-white cap she ran over the long bridge
opposite the parsonage window, out of which I was looking. To catch her,
not to _say_, but to _give_ her something sweet, a mouthful of fruit,
to run quickly through the parsonage court, down the little steps, and
arrest her in her flight, my conscience would never permit; but I enjoyed
enough to see her from the window upon the bridge, and I think it was
near enough for me to stand, as I usually did, with my heart behind a
long seeing and hearing trumpet. Distance injures true love less than
nearness. Could I upon the planet Venus discover the goddess Venus, while
in the distance its charms were so enchanting, I should have warmly loved
it, and without hesitation chosen to revere it as my morning and evening
star.

In the mean time I have the satisfaction to draw all those, who expect
in Schwarzenbach a repetition of the Joditz love, from their error,
and inform them that it came to something. On a winter evening, when
my princess’s collection of sweet gifts was prepared, and needed only
a receiver, the pastor’s son, who among all my school companions was
the worst, persuaded me, when a visit from the chaplain occupied my
father, to leave the parsonage while it was dark, to pass the bridge,
and venture, which I had never done, into the house where the beloved
dwelt with her poor grandmother up in a little corner chamber. We entered
a little ale-house underneath. Whether Catharine happened to be there,
or whether the rascal, under the pretence of a message, allured her
down upon the middle of the steps, or, in short, how it happened that I
found her there, has become only a dreamy recollection; for the sudden
lightning of the present darkened all that went behind. As violently
as if I had been a robber, I first pressed upon her my present of
sweetmeats, and then I, who in Joditz never could reach the heaven of a
first kiss, and never even dared to touch the beloved hand, I, for the
first time, held a beloved being upon my heart and lips. I have nothing
further to say, but that it was the _one_ pearl of a minute, that was
never repeated; a whole longing past and a dreaming future were united in
one moment, and in the darkness behind my closed eyes the fireworks of a
whole life were evolved in a glance. Ah, I have never forgotten it,—the
ineffaceable moment!

I returned like a _clairvoyant_ from heaven again to earth, and remarked
only that in this second Christmas festival Ruprecht[9] did not precede,
but followed it, for on my way home I met a messenger coming for me, and
was severely scolded for running away. Usually after such warm silver
beams of a blessed sun there falls a closing, stormy gust. What was its
effect on me? The stream of words could not drain my paradise,—for does
it not bloom even to-day around and forth from my pen?

It was, as I have said, the first kiss, and, as I believe, will be the
last; for I shall not, probably, although she lives yet, journey to
Schwarzenbach to give a second. As usual, during my whole Schwarzenbach
life I was perfectly contented with my telegraphic love, which yet
sustained and kept itself alive without any answering telegram. But truly
no one could blame her less than I that she was silent at that time, or
that she continues so now after the death of her husband; for later, in
stranger loves and hearts, I have always been slow to speak. It did not
help me that I stood with ready face and attractive outward appearance;
all corporeal charms must be placed over the foil of the spiritual before
they can sufficiently shine and kindle and dazzle. But this was the
cause of failure in my innocent love-time, that without any intercourse
with the beloved, without conversation or introduction, I displayed my
whole love bursting from the dry exterior, and stood before her like the
_Judas-tree_, in full blossom, but without branch or leaf.

       *       *       *       *       *

An incident previously referred to has been thus embodied in verse:

  THE GUERDON.

  Alain, the poet, fell asleep one day
    In the lords’ chamber, when it chanced the queen
  With her twelve maids of honor passed that way,—
    She like a slim white lily set between
    Twelve glossy leaves, for they were robed in green.

  A forest of gold pillars propped the roof,
    And from the heavy corbels of carved stone
  Yawned drowsy dwarfs, with satyr’s face and hoof:
    Like one of those bright pillars overthrown,
    The slanted sunlight through the casement shone,

  Gleaming across the body of Alain,—
    As if the airy column in its fall
  Had caught and crushed him. So the laughing train
    Came on him suddenly, and one and all
    Drew back, affrighted, midway in the hall.

  Like some huge beetle curled up in the sun
    Was this man lying in the noontide glare,
  Deformed, and hideous to look upon,
    With sunken eyes, and masses of coarse hair,
    And sallow cheeks deep-seamed with time and care.

  Forth from her maidens stood Queen Margaret:
    The royal blood up to her temples crept,
  Like a wild vine with faint red roses set,
    As she across the pillared chamber swept,
    And, kneeling, kissed the poet while he slept.

  Then from her knees uprose the stately queen,
    And, seeing her ladies titter, ’gan to frown
  With those great eyes wherein methinks were seen
    Lights that outflashed the lustres in her crown,—
    Great eyes that looked the shallow women down.

  “Nay, not for love,”—’twas like a sudden bliss,
    The full sweet measured music of her tongue,—
  “Nay, not for love’s sake did I give the kiss,
    Not for his beauty, who’s nor fair nor young,
    But for the songs which those mute lips have sung!”


FREAKS AND PHASES OF LOCAL CUSTOM.


THE KISS OF PEACE.

The peculiar tendency of the Christian religion to encourage honor
towards all men, as men, to foster and develop the softer affections,
and, in the trying condition of the early Church, to make its members
intimately known one to another, and unite them in the closest bonds,
led to the observance of kissing as an accompaniment of that social
worship which took its origin in the very cradle of our religion. Hence
the exhortation of St. Paul, “Salute one another with a holy kiss;”
and the brethren followed the injunction literally. It was called
_signaculum orationis_, the soul of prayer; and was a symbol of that
mutual forgiveness and reconciliation which the Church required as
an essential condition to admission to its sacraments. Tertullian,
Origen, and Athenagoras mention it; and Dr. Milner cites the Apostolical
Constitutions to show the manner in which the ceremony was performed:

“Let the bishop salute the church and say, ‘The peace of God be with
you all;’ And let the people answer, ‘And with thy spirit.’ Then let
the deacon say to all, ‘Salute one another with a holy kiss and let the
clergy kiss the bishop, and the laymen the laymen, and the women the
women.”

This primitive fraternal embrace appears to have been observed as late
as the twelfth or thirteenth century, and the _pax_ (osculatorium,
porte-paix, or pax brede) introduced, as it was at this period that the
sexes began to mingle together in the low mass.

The use of the _pax_ in England was prescribed by the royal commissioners
of Edward VI. The Injunctions published at Doncaster, in 1548, ordain
that:

“The clarke shall bring down the paxe, and standing without the church
door, shall say loudly to the people these words, ‘This is a token of
joyful peace which is betwixt God and men’s conscience; Christ alone
is the peace-maker, which straitly commands peace between brother and
brother. And so long as ye shall use these ceremonies, so long shall ye
use these significations.’”

Agnes Strickland, in her account of the coronation of Queen Elizabeth,
says:

“Then the bishop began the mass, the epistle being read first in Latin
and then in English, the gospel the same,—the book being sent to the
queen, who kissed the gospel. She then went to the altar to make her
second offering, three unsheathed swords being borne before her, and one
in the scabbard. The queen, kneeling, put money in the basin, and kissed
the chalice; and then and there certain words were read to her grace.
She retired to her seat again during the consecration, and kissed the
pax.”[10]


ROYAL FEET-WASHING AND KISSING.

In this country, the ceremonies of Lent and of Easter belong to the
Church alone, but in most other lands these occasions have always borne
both a civil and a political relation to society.

In former times royalty itself led the Lenten solemnities, and we read of
monarchs washing the feet of beggars, in imitation of Christ, who washed
the feet of his disciples. This ceremony, which was regularly practised
by the kings and queens of England in ancient times, occurred upon
Maundy-Thursday. They washed and kissed the feet of as many poor people
as they themselves numbered in years, and bestowed a gift, or _maundy_,
upon each.

Queen Elizabeth performed this royal duty at Greenwich when she was
thirty-nine years old, on which occasion the feet of thirty-nine poor
persons were first washed by the yeomen of the laundry with warm water
and sweet herbs, afterwards by the sub-almoner, and lastly by the queen
herself; the person who washed making each time a cross upon the pauper’s
foot, above the toes, and kissing it. This ceremony was performed by
the queen kneeling, being attended by thirty-nine ladies and gentlemen.
Clothes, victuals, and money were then distributed among the poor.

The last of the English monarchs who performed this office in person was
James II., and it was afterwards performed by the almoner. On the 5th of
April, 1731, it being Maundy-Thursday, and the king in his forty-eighth
year, there were distributed at the banqueting-house, Whitehall, to
forty-eight poor men and the same number of poor women, boiled beef and
shoulders of mutton, and small bowls of ale, for dinner; after that large
wooden platters of fish and loaves, the fish being undressed,—twelve
red herrings and twelve white herrings, and four half quartern loaves.
Each person had one platter of these provisions, and after that were
distributed among them shoes, stockings, linen and woollen cloth, and
leathern bags filled with silver and copper coins, to each about four
pounds in value. The washing of feet was performed by his Grace the Lord
Archbishop of York, who was also Lord High Almoner.

Cardinal Wolsey, in 1530, made his _maundy_ at Peterborough Abbey, where
upon Maundy-Thursday, in our Lady’s Chapel, he washed and kissed the feet
of fifty-nine poor men, “and, after he had wiped them, he gave every one
of the said poor men twelve pence in money, three ells of good canvas to
make them shirts, a pair of new shoes, a cast of red herrings and three
white herrings, and one of these had two shillings.”

This ancient custom is now no longer observed, except in the Royal
Chapel at Whitehall, where the poor still receive their gifts from the
royal bounty.

Soon after the accession of King Alfonso to the throne of Spain, he
performed the emblematic ceremony of washing the apostles’ feet, showing
that the royal custom is not obsolete in Madrid, at least. A witness,
after describing the preliminaries, says:

“Men and women in a compact mass of silk and velvet, broadcloth and gold
lace, crowded the ‘Hall of the Columns,’ where the ceremony was to take
place, the spectators, more than eight hundred of whom were ladies,
standing all round, jammed upon benches, row upon row, leaving barely the
most limited space open for the performers. Within this space the twelve
paupers, or apostles, sat on a settee, each of them with his best foot
and leg bare to the knee, and as well ‘prepared’ for the occasion as by
dint of much soap and water could be contrived; the king in his grand
uniform, with a towel tied around him, apron-wise, followed by Cardinal
Moreno, Archbishop of Valladolid, in his scarlet robes and skull-cap, and
behind and all around them a great staff of grandees and marshals, an
array of golden uniforms only distinguishable from the no less sumptuous
liveries of the court menials by the stars, crosses, cordons, and scarfs
of their chivalrous orders. The cardinal went first, and sprinkled a few
drops of perfumed water over each of the bare feet in succession; the
king came after, kneeling before each foot, rubbing it slightly with his
towel, then stooping upon it as if he meant to kiss it. The ceremony did
not take many minutes. The twelve men then got up; they were marshalled
in great pomp round the hall, and seated in a row on one side of the
table, with their faces to the spectators, in the order observed in
Leonardo da Vinci’s grand picture of the Last Supper.”


THE CUSTOM OF KISSING HANDS.

  “Solemnly down the street came the parish priest, and the children
  Paused in their play to kiss the hand he extended to bless them.”

                                                            _Evangeline._

Mr. D’Israeli, in his “Curiosities of Literature,” thus summarizes the
historical notices of M. Morin, a French Academician, upon the custom of
kissing hands:

“This custom is not only very ancient, and nearly universal, but has been
alike participated by religion and society.

“To begin with religion. From the remotest times men saluted the sun,
moon, and stars, by kissing the hand. Job assures us that he was never
given to this superstition (xxxi. 27). The same honor was rendered to
Baal (1 Kings xviii.). Other instances might be adduced.

“We now pass to Greece. There all foreign superstitions were received.
Lucian, after having mentioned various sorts of sacrifices which the
rich offered the gods, adds that the poor adored them by the simpler
compliment of kissing their hands. That author gives an anecdote of
Demosthenes which shows this custom. When a prisoner to the soldiers of
Antipater, he asked to enter a temple. When he entered, he touched his
mouth with his hands, which the guards took for an act of religion. He
did it, however, more securely to swallow the poison he had prepared for
such an occasion. Lucian mentions other instances.

“From the Greeks it passed to the Romans. Pliny places it amongst those
ancient customs of which they were ignorant of the origin or the reason.
Persons were treated as atheists who would not kiss their hands when they
entered a temple. When Apuleius mentions Psyche, he says she was so
beautiful that they adored her as Venus, in kissing the right hand.

“This ceremonial action rendered respectable the earliest institutions
of Christianity. It was a custom with the primeval bishops to give their
hands to be kissed by the ministers who served at the altar.

“This custom, however, as a religious rite, declined with paganism.

“In society our ingenious Academician considers the custom of
kissing hands as essential to its welfare. It is a mute form which
expresses reconciliation, which entreats favors, or which thanks for
those received. It is a universal language, intelligible without an
interpreter, which doubtless preceded writing, and perhaps speech itself.

“Solomon says of the flatterers and suppliants of his time, that they
ceased not to kiss the hands of their patrons till they had obtained the
favors which they solicited. In Homer we see Priam kissing the hands and
embracing the knees of Achilles while he supplicates for the body of
Hector.

“This custom prevailed in ancient Rome, but it varied. In the first ages
of the republic it seems to have been only practised by inferiors to
their superiors: equals gave their hands and embraced. In the progress
of time, even the soldiers refused to show this mark of respect to their
generals; and their kissing the hand of Cato when he was obliged to
quit them was regarded as an extraordinary circumstance, at a period of
such refinement. The great respect paid to the tribunes, consuls, and
dictators obliged individuals to live with them in a more distant and
respectful manner, and, instead of embracing them as they did formerly,
they considered themselves as fortunate if allowed to kiss their hands.
Under the emperors, kissing hands became an essential duty, even for the
great themselves; inferior courtiers were obliged to be content to adore
the purple by kneeling, touching the robe of the emperor by the right
hand, and carrying it to the mouth. Even this was thought too free; and
at length they saluted the emperor at a distance by kissing their hands,
in the same manner as when they adored their gods.

“It is superfluous to trace this custom in every country where it exists.
It is practised in every known country, in respect of sovereigns and
superiors, even amongst the negroes and inhabitants of the New World.
Cortez found it established at Mexico, where more than a thousand
lords saluted him, in touching the earth with their hands, which they
afterwards carried to their mouths.

“Thus, whether the custom of salutation is practised by kissing the hands
of others from respect, or in bringing one’s own to the mouth, it is of
all customs the most universal. M. Morin concludes that this practice is
now become too gross a familiarity, and it is considered as a meanness
to kiss the hand of those with whom we are in habits of intercourse; and
he prettily observes that this custom would be entirely lost if _lovers_
were not solicitous to preserve it in all its full power.”


UNDER THE MISTLETOE.

  “The shepherd, now no more afraid,
    Since custom doth the chance bestow,
  Starts up to kiss the giggling maid
    Beneath the branch of mistletoe
  That ’neath each cottage beam is seen,
    With pearl-like berries shining gay,
  The shadow still of what hath been,
    Which fashion yearly fades away.”

                                  CLARE.

The mistletoe, which has so many mystic associations connected
with it, is believed to be propagated in its natural state by the
_missel-thrush_, which feeds upon its berries. It was long thought
impossible to propagate it artificially; but this object has been
attained by bruising the berries, and, by means of their viscidity,
causing them to adhere to the bark of fruit-trees, where they readily
germinate and take root. The growth of the mistletoe on the oak is now
of extremely rare occurrence, but in the orchards of the west-midland
counties of England, such as the shires of Gloucester and Worcester, the
plant flourishes in great frequency and luxuriance on the apple-trees.
Large quantities are annually cut at the Christmas season, and despatched
to London and other places, where they are extensively used for the
decoration of houses and shops. The special custom connected with the
mistletoe on Christmas Eve, an indubitable relic of the days of Druidism,
handed down through a long course of centuries, must be familiar to all
of our readers. A branch of the mystic plant is suspended from the wall
or ceiling, and any one of the fair sex who, either from inadvertence,
or, as possibly may be insinuated, _on purpose_, passes beneath the
sacred spray, incurs the penalty of being then and there kissed by any
lord of the creation who chooses to avail himself of the privilege.


SCANDINAVIAN TRADITION.

Balder, the Apollo of Scandinavian mythology, was killed by a mistletoe
arrow given to the blind Höder by Loki, the god of mischief, and
potentate of our earth. Balder was restored to life, but the mistletoe
was placed in future under the care of Friga, and was never again to be
an instrument of evil till it touched the earth, the empire of Loki.
Hence is it always suspended from ceilings. And when persons of opposite
sexes pass under it, they give each other the kiss of peace and love,
in the full assurance that the epiphyte is no longer an instrument of
mischief.


THE MISTLETOE.

  Stout emblem of returning peace,
  The heart’s full gush, and love’s release,
  Spirits in human fondness flow,
  And greet the pearly _Mistletoe_.

  Many a maiden’s cheek is red
  By lips and laughter thither led;
  And fluttering bosoms come and go
  Under the Druid _Mistletoe_.

  Dear is the memory of a theft
  When love and youth and joy are left;
  The passion’s blush, the rose’s glow,
  Accept the Cupid _Mistletoe_.

  Oh, happy, tricksome time of mirth,
  Giv’n to the stars of sky and earth!
  May all the best of feeling know,
  The custom of the _Mistletoe_!

  Spread out the laurel and the bay,
  For chimney-piece and window gay:
  Scour the brass gear—a shining row,
  And holly place with _Mistletoe_.

  Married and single, proud and free,
  Yield to the season, trim with glee;
  Time will not stay—he cheats us, so—
  A kiss?—’tis gone! _the Mistletoe_.


THE MISTLETOE IN AMERICA.

  “Under the mistletoe-bough;”
    Not in the far-away British Isles,
  But here in the West it is glimmering, now,—
    An exile from home of three thousand miles;
  And the leaves are as darkly fresh and green,
    And the berries as crisply waxen white,
  As they show to-night, in so many a scene,
    In Old England’s halls of light.

  Quiet it hangs on the wall,
    Or pendent droops from the chandelier,
  As if never a mischief or harm could fall
    From its modest intrusion, there or here!
  And yet how many a pulse it has fired,
    How many a lip made nervously bold,
  When youthful revel went on, untired,
    In the Christmas days of old!

  The lover’s heart might be low,
    And the love of his lady very high,
  With no one her inmost heart to know,
    Or the riddle to read of the haughty eye;
  But under the mistletoe fairly caught,
    What maiden coyness or pride could dare
  To turn from the kisses as sudden as thought
    And ardent as waiting prayer?

  “_C’est la première pas qui coûte!_”
    So they say, in another far-away land;
  And, the one kiss given, more follow, as fruit,
    As the dullest can easily understand;
  And then, of the end to come, who knows,
    Save the village bells, and the welcome priest,
  And the sister-maidens, with cheeks like the rose,
    Who assist at the bridal feast?

  Methinks, if the shamrock green
    Is the leaf so dear to an Irish heart,
  To the mistletoe-berry’s silver sheen
    England’s love has been owing no minor part;
  And greenly its stiff-set leaves have twined
    Round many a tenderest bridal nest,
  Since that saddest of tales all hearts enshrined
    In the lay of the “Old Oak Chest.”

  What matter if centuries long
    Have hidden a part of the mystery deep
  That lay in the Druids’ re-echoing song,
    When it glistened in Stonehenge’s mighty heap?
  For enough still remains to make sure the truth
    That it symbolled the great Perennial Good,
  And they saw from its joints springing Endless Youth
    That the force of the Ages withstood.

  Little sprig from the mother-land!—
    It is pleasant and cosy to have you here,
  When the festive and lonely waiting stand
    On the verge of their varying Christmas cheer.
  Though we cannot transplant your pride of growth,
    Any more than the hawthorn, wayward and coy,
  You can give us, still, the Old English troth,
    And a thought of Old English joy.

  Ha! what? Do the leaves grow dim?—
    Do the white waxen berries wither and fleet,
  Ere even the notes of the Christmas hymn
    Float in o’er the hush of the silent street?
  But, even if so, may kind Heaven forefend
    That the omen shall fade from heart or brow
  Of that truth to lover, that fealty to friend,
    Ever typed by the mistletoe-bough!


THE BLARNEY STONE.

In the year 1602, when the Spaniards were inciting the Irish chieftains
to harass the English authorities, Cormac MacCarthy held, among other
dependencies, the castle of Blarney, and had concluded an armistice with
the Lord-President on condition of surrendering this fort to an English
garrison. Day after day did his lordship look for the fulfilment of
the compact, while the Irish Pozzo di Borgo, as loath to part with his
stronghold as Russia to relinquish the Dardanelles, kept protocolizing
with soft promises and delusive delays, until at last Carew became the
laughing-stock of Elizabeth’s ministers, and _Blarney talk_ proverbial.

A popular tradition attributes to the Blarney Stone the power of endowing
whoever kisses it with the sweet, persuasive, wheedling eloquence so
perceptible in the language of the Cork people, and which is generally
termed _Blarney_. This is the true meaning of the word, and not, as
some writers have supposed, a faculty of deviating from veracity with
an unblushing countenance whenever it may be convenient. The curious
traveller will seek in vain the _real_ stone, unless he allows himself
to be lowered from the northern angle of the lofty castle, when he
will discover cover it about twenty feet from the top, with the
inscription—_Cormac MacCarthy fortis me fieri fecit, A.D. 1446_.

As the kissing of this would be somewhat difficult, the candidate for
Blarney honors will be glad to know that at the summit, and within
easy access, is another _real_ stone, bearing the date of 1703. A song
published in the “Reliques of Father Prout” contains an allusion to this
marvellous relic:

  “There is a stone there,
  That whoever kisses,
  Oh, he never misses
    To grow eloquent.
  ’Tis he may clamber
  To a lady’s chamber,
  Or become a member
    Of Parliament.

  “A clever spouter
  He’ll sure turn out, or
  An out-and-outer,
    To be let alone!
  Don’t hope to hinder him,
  Or to bewilder him;
  Sure he’s a pilgrim
    From the Blarney Stone.”


THE BLARNEY STONE.

  I.

  In Blarney Castle, on a crumbling tower,
    There lies a stone (above your ready reach),
  Which to the lips imparts, ’tis said, the power
    Of facile falsehood and persuasive speech;
  And hence, of one who talks in such a tone,
  The peasants say, “He’s kissed the Blarney Stone.”

  II.

  Thus, when I see some flippant tourist swell
    With secrets wrested from an emperor,
  And hear him vaunt his bravery, and tell
    How once he snubbed a marquis, I infer
  The man came back—if but the truth were known—
  By way of Cork, and kissed the Blarney Stone!

  III.

  So, when I hear a shallow dandy boast
    (In the long ear that marks a brother dunce)
  What precious favors ladies’ lips have lost,
    To his advantage, I suspect at once
  The fellow’s lying; that the dog alone
  (Enough for him!) has kissed the Blarney Stone!

  IV.

  When some fine lady—ready to defame
    An absent beauty, with as sweet a grace—
  With seeming rapture greets a hated name,
    And lauds her rival to her wondering face,
  E’en Charity herself must freely own
  Some women, too, have kissed the Blarney Stone!

  V.

  When sleek attorneys, whose seductive tongues,
    Smooth with the unction of a golden fee,
  “Breathe forth huge falsehoods from capacious lungs,”
    (The words are Juvenal’s,) ’tis plain to see
  A lawyer’s genius isn’t all his own:
  The specious rogue has kissed the Blarney Stone!

  VI.

  When the false pastor from his fainting flock
    Withholds the Bread of Life,—the Gospel news,—
  To give them dainty words, lest he should shock
    The fragile fabric of the paying pews,
  Who but must feel, the man, to grace unknown,
  Has kissed,—not Calvary,—but the Blarney Stone?

                                            SAXE.


KISSING THE POPE’S TOE.

Buckle, in his “History of Civilization in England,” says:

“Some questions had been raised as to the propriety of kissing the
Pope’s toe, and even theologians had their doubts touching so singular
a ceremony. But this difficulty has been set at rest by Matthew of
Westminster, who explains the true origin of this custom. He says
that formerly it was usual to kiss the hand of his Holiness, but that
towards the end of the eighth century a certain lewd woman, in making an
offering to the Pope, not only kissed his hand, but also pressed it. The
Pope,—his name was Leo,—seeing the danger, cut off his hand, and thus
escaped the contamination to which he had been exposed. Since that time,
the precaution has been taken of kissing the Pope’s toe, instead of his
hand. And, lest any one should doubt the accuracy of this account, the
historian assures us that the hand, which had been cut off five or six
hundred years before, still existed in Rome; and was indeed a standing
miracle, since it was preserved in the Lateran in its original state,
free from corruption. And, as some readers might wish to be informed
respecting the Lateran itself, where the hand was kept, this also is
considered by the historian, in another part of his great work, where
he traces it back to the Emperor Nero. For it is said that this wicked
persecutor of the faith on one occasion vomited a frog covered with
blood, which he believed to be his own progeny, and, therefore, caused it
to be shut up in a vault, where it remained hidden for some time. Now,
in the Latin language _latente_ means hidden, and _rana_ means a frog;
so that by putting these two words together we have the origin of the
Lateran, which, in fact, was built where the frog was found.”

Punch, the London Charivari, who is no respecter of persons, and who
strikes right and left with unhesitating freedom, levelled the following
characteristic squib at Pius IX. during the famous Gladstone and Manning
controversy:


“DE PROFUNDIS.”—A NEW VERSION.

  Pity the sorrows of a poor old man,
  Close prisoner kept within the Vatican;
  What if ’tis a fair palace, if I don’t
  Go free abroad—that is because I won’t!
  Dry bread and water, such the prison food;—
  Unless I choose to order all that’s good.
  And then so poor—with Peter’s pence in pocket,
  And treasury with friends and foes to stock it.
  Besides, these felon’s garments forced to wear,
  Of softest silk and costliest mohair;
  And forced to brook, by rulers harsh and proud,
  Th’ obsequious service of a servile crowd;
  Crowding my halls, my cruel gaolers see
  Waiting my orders upon bended knee!
  And last, not least—for the severest blow—
  My visitors are free to come and go,
  To crave my blessing, and to kiss my toe!


THE BRONZE STATUE OF ST. PETER.

In “Pen-Pictures of Europe,” Elizabeth Peake says, speaking of St.
Peter’s Church at Rome:

“In contrast with the beauty and grandeur of the interior is the
insignificant-looking bronze statue of what they call St. Peter, seated
in a chair of white marble. Some one remarked that it had been in ancient
times a statue of Jupiter. ‘Jupiter,’ I exclaimed, ‘the Jupiter of the
old Romans? Never!’ While I stood wondering at the unaccountable vagaries
of mankind in general, and of artists in particular, and of the meaning
of the word taste, several persons passed along and kissed the foot of
the statue, the toes of which are actually worn away with kissing, and
the big toe, what is left of it, looks bright as gold....

“Crowds of people were walking round in the nave, looking at the pictures
and statues; crowds stood at the gate of the chapel, looking in through
the gate and railing, listening to the music; and all grades filed along
by the statue of St. Peter, kneeling, then rising and kissing his toe.
The peasants wiped off the toe with their hands or sleeves, and then
kissed it; others carefully wiped it with their handkerchiefs both before
and after kissing it.”


A KISS FOR A VOTE.

In a little work published in London in 1758, entitled “A New
Geographical and Historical Grammar,” we find the following paragraph
concerning bribery and kissing:

“The ladies may think it a hardship that they are neither allowed a
place in the Senate nor a voice in the choice of what is called the
representative of the nation. However, their influence appears to be such
in many instances that they have no reason to complain. In boroughs the
candidates are so wise as to apply chiefly to the wife.[11] A certain
candidate for a Norfolk borough kissed the voters’ wives with guineas
in his mouth, for which he was expelled the House; and for this reason
others, I suppose, will be more private in their addresses to the ladies.”

Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, gave Steel, the butcher, a kiss for his
vote nearly a century since; and another equally beautiful woman, Jane,
Duchess of Gordon, recruited her regiment in a similar manner. Duncan
Mackenzie, a veteran of Waterloo, who died at Elgin, Scotland, December,
1866, delighted in relating how he kissed the duchess in taking the
shilling from between her teeth to become one of her regiment,—the Gordon
Highlanders, better known as the Ninety-second. The old Scottish veteran
of eighty-seven has not left one behind him to tell the same tale about
kissing the blue-eyed duchess in the market-place of Duthill.

The late Daniel O’Connell hit upon a novel mode of securing votes for the
candidates he had named at a certain election, which test, considering
the constitutional temperament of his countrymen, is said to have proved
effectual. He said, in reference to the unfortunate elector who should
vote against them, “Let no man speak to him. _Let no woman salute him!_”


FRENCH CHEAPENING AND DEGENERACY.

Montaigne, speaking of the gradual debasement of the custom in France in
his time (1533-1592), says:

“Do but observe how much the form of salutation, particular to our
nation, has by its facility made kisses, which Socrates says are so
powerful and dangerous for stealing hearts, of no esteem. It is a
nauseous and injurious custom for ladies, that they must be obliged to
lend their lips to every fellow that has three footmen at his heels, how
nasty or deformed soever; and we do not get much by the bargain; for,
as the world is divided, for three pretty women we must kiss fifty ugly
ones, and to a tender stomach like those of my age, an ill kiss overpays
a good one.”


KISSING DANCES.

A correspondent of “The Spectator” (No. 67, an. 1711) having bitterly
complained of the lascivious character of the dancing of the period,
Budgell, in the course of his reply, remarks:

“I must confess I am afraid that my correspondent had too much reason to
be a little out of humor at the treatment of his daughter; but I conclude
that he would have been much more so had he seen one of those kissing
dances, in which Will Honeycomb assures me they are obliged to dwell
almost a minute on the fair one’s lips, or they will be too quick for the
music and dance quite out of time.”

Long before, Sir John Suckling had said, in his “Ballad on a Wedding:”

  “O’ th’ sudden up they rise and dance;
  Then sit again, and sigh, and glance;
      Then dance again, and kiss.”

While on this subject it may not be amiss to advert to a passage in the
_Symposium_, or Banquet, of Xenophon, which Burton, in his “Anatomy of
Melancholy,” quotes with his usual gusto:

“When Xenophon had discoursed of love, and used all the engines that
might be devised, to move Socrates, among the rest, to stir him the
more, he shuts up all with a pleasant interlude or dance of Dionysius
and Ariadne: First Ariadne, dressed like a bride, came in and took her
place; by-and-by Dionysius entered, dancing to the music. The spectators
did all admire the young man’s carriage; and Ariadne herself was so
much affected with the sight that she could scarce sit. After awhile
Dionysius beholding Ariadne, and incensed with love, bowing to her
knees, embraced her first, and kissed her with a grace; she embraced
him again, and kissed him with like affection, as the dance required;
but they that stood by and saw this did much applaud and commend them
both for it. And when Dionysius rose up, he raised her up with him,
and many pretty gestures, embraces, kisses, and love-compliments passed
between them: which when they saw fair Bacchus and beautiful Ariadne so
sweetly and so unfeignedly kissing each other, so really embracing, they
swore they loved indeed, and were so inflamed with the object that they
began to rouse up themselves, as if they would have flown. At the last,
when they saw them still so willingly embracing, and now ready to go to
the bride-chamber, they were so ravished with it that they that were
unmarried swore they would forthwith marry, and those that were married
called instantly for their horses, and galloped home to their wives.’”


KISSING HANDS IN AUSTRIA.

Kissing the hand is a national custom in Austria. A gentleman on meeting
a lady of his acquaintance, especially if she be young and handsome,
kisses her hand. On parting from her he again kisses her hand. In Vienna,
a young man who is paying his addresses to a young lady, on taking his
place at the supper-table around which the family are seated, kisses the
mother’s hand as well as the hand of his affianced. It is very common to
see a gentleman kiss a lady’s hand on the street on meeting or parting.
If you give a beggar-woman a few coppers, she either kisses your hand,
or says, “I kiss your hand.” The stranger must expect to have his hand
kissed not only by beggars, but by chambermaids, lackeys, and even by
old men. Gentlemen kiss the hands of married women as well as of those
who are single, as it is regarded as an ordinary salutation or token
of respect. American ladies are startled with the first experience of
the application of this custom; but they soon submit to it with a good
grace. Children, when presented to a stranger, take his hand and kiss
it, showing that it is a custom to which they are educated from their
cradles.


TEMPLAR INTERDICTION.

In “Ivanhoe” the Grand Master of the Templars is made to say:

——“Thou knowest that we were forbidden to receive those devout women
who at the beginning were associated as sisters of our Order, because,
saith the forty-sixth chapter, the Ancient Enemy hath by female society
withdrawn many from the right path to paradise. Nay, in the last capital,
being, as it were, the cope-stone which our blessed founder placed on the
pure and undefiled doctrine which he had enjoined, we are prohibited from
offering even to our sisters and our mothers the kiss of affection—_ut
omnium mulierum fugiantur oscula_. I shame to speak—I shame to think—of
the corruptions which have rushed in upon us even like a flood.”


POMPEIAN TOKENS.

Marc Monnier, in his “Wonders of Pompeii,” says that the latest
excavations have revealed the existence of hanging covered balconies,
long exterior corridors, pierced with casements frequently depicted in
the paintings. There the fair Pompeian could have taken her station in
order to participate in the life outside. The good housewife of those
times, like her counterpart in our day, could there have held out her
basket to the street-merchant who went wandering about with his portable
shop; and more than one handsome girl may at the same post have carried
her fingers to her lips, there to cull (the ancient custom) the kiss that
she flung to the young Pompeian concealed down yonder in the corner of
the wall. Thus re-peopled, the old-time street, narrow as it is, was
gayer than our own thoroughfares; and the brightly-painted houses, the
variegated walls, the monuments, and the fountains gave vivid animation
to a picture too dazzling for our gaze.


ARABIAN SALUTATION.

Eastern salutations take up considerable time. When an Arab meets a
friend, he begins, while yet some distance from him, to make gestures
expressive of his very great satisfaction in seeing him. When he comes
up to him, he grasps him by the right hand, and then brings back his own
hand to his lips, in token of respect. He next proceeds to place his
hand gently under the long beard of the other, and honors it with an
affectionate kiss. He inquires particularly, again and again, concerning
his health and the health of his family, and repeats, over and over, the
best wishes for his prosperity, giving thanks to God that he is permitted
once more to behold his face. All this round of gestures and words is,
of course, gone over by the friend too, with like formality. But they
are not generally satisfied with a single exchange of this sort: they
sometimes repeat as often as ten times the whole tiresome ceremony, with
little or no variation.

Some such tedious modes of salutation were common, also, of old; so that
a man might suffer very material delay in travelling if he chanced to
meet several acquaintances and should undertake to salute each according
to the custom of the country. On this account, when Elisha sent his
servant Gehazi in great haste to the Shunammite’s house, he said to him,
“If thou meet any man, salute him not; and if any salute thee, answer him
not again.” (2 Kings iv. 29.) So, when our Lord sent forth his seventy
disciples, among other instructions, he bade them “salute no man by the
way;” meaning that their work was too important to allow such a waste of
time in the exchange of mere unmeaning ceremonies. (Luke x. 4.)


THE OLD ROMAN CODE.

This code defined with great accuracy the nature, limits, and conditions
of the _right of kissing_, although we do not find that property of this
nature holds a place among the incorporeal hereditaments of our laws. The
Romans were very strict, and only near blood-relations might kiss the
women of the family at all. The kiss had all the virtue of a bond granted
as a seal to the ceremony of betrothing, in consequence of the violence
done to the modesty of the lady by a kiss!


WEDDING-CEREMONY IN TURKEY.

In Turkey, negotiations for marriage are conducted by friends or
relations, the parties in interest not being allowed to see each other.
The bargain being concluded to their mutual satisfaction, preparations
are made for the customary festivities.

About nine or ten o’clock in the evening the nuptial knot is tied,—the
Imaam, or priest, placing himself in a short passage which leads between
two rooms, respectively occupied by the bride and bridegroom, who neither
see each other nor the priest during the ceremony. That functionary asks
the bride if she will take the man to be her husband, whether he be
blind, lame, etc. She replies yes, three times.

They are now man and wife, though as yet they have not gazed on each
other’s features.

After the conclusion of the ceremony the festivities are resumed.

Meanwhile the bride is escorted by her female friends to the bridal
chamber, where she is seated on an ottoman and left alone. Shortly after,
the bridegroom makes his appearance. Discovering that his wife is still
enveloped in her veil, he requests her to throw it aside, so that he can
feast his eyes upon her beauty. This she coquettishly declines doing
until he has become very earnest in his persuasions, when she discloses
to him for the first time a view of her face.

After much persuasion on his part, and affected reluctance on hers, he at
length succeeds in kissing her, and the curtain drops.


KISSING IN CHINA.

An American naval officer, who had spent considerable time in China,
narrates an amusing experience of the ignorance of the Chinese maidens
of the custom of kissing. Wishing to complete a conquest he had made
of a young _mei jin_ (beautiful lady), he invited her—using the
English words—to give him a kiss. Finding her comprehension of his
request somewhat obscure, he suited the action to the word and took a
delicious kiss. The girl ran away into another room, thoroughly alarmed,
exclaiming, “Terrible man-eater, I shall be devoured.” But in a moment,
finding herself uninjured by the salute, she returned to his side,
saying, “I would learn more of your strange rite. Ke-e-es me.” He knew it
wasn’t “right,” but he kept on instructing her in the rite of “ke-e-es
me,” until she knew how to do it like a native Yankee girl; and after all
that, she suggested a second course, by remarking, “Ke-e-es me some more,
_seen jine_ Mee-lee-kee!” (_Anglicé_—American), and the lesson went on
until her mamma’s voice rudely awakened them from their delicious dream.

Notwithstanding the alleged infrequency of the custom of kissing in the
Chinese dominions, we learn, from the Chinese poems which have been so
happily translated by Mr. G. C. Stent, that the people of far Cathay are
quite as susceptible to the spell of physical beauty as the people of
other lands, and that they know as well how to sing and flatter it. Take
the following extract, for example:

  “Bashfully, swimmingly, pleadingly, scoffingly,
  Temptingly, languidly, lovingly, laughingly,
  Witchingly, roguishly, playfully, naughtily,
  Wilfully, waywardly, meltingly, haughtily,
  Gleamed the eyes of Yang-kuei-fei.
  When she smiled, her lips unclosing,
  Two rows of pearly teeth disclosing;
  Cheeks of alabaster, showing
  The warm red blood beneath them glowing,—
  Peaches longing to be bitten,
  First dew-moistened, then sun-smitten.
  Four lines Li-tai-pai has written
  In more expressive words convey
  What others might in vain essay:
    ‘Oh for those blushing, dimpled cheeks,
      That match the rose in hue!
    If one is kissed, the other speaks,
      By blushes, _Kiss me too!_’”


NEW YEAR’S DAY IN NEW AMSTERDAM.

In Diedrich Knickerbocker’s veracious history of New York, we are
told that New Year’s day was the favorite festival of the renowned
governor Peter Stuyvesant, and was ushered in by the ringing of bells
and firing of guns. On that genial day, says Mr. Irving, the fountains
of hospitality were broken up, and the whole community was deluged
with cherry brandy, true Hollands, and mulled cider; every house was a
temple of the jolly god, and many a provident vagabond got drunk out of
pure economy,—taking in liquor enough gratis to serve him half a year
afterwards.

The great assemblage, however, was at the governor’s house, whither
repaired all the burghers of New Amsterdam, with their wives and
daughters, pranked out in their best attire. On this occasion the good
Peter was devoutly observant of the pious Dutch rite of kissing the
women-kind for a Happy New Year; and it is traditional that Antony the
Trumpeter, who acted as gentleman usher, took toll of all who were young
and handsome, as they passed through the antechamber. This venerable
custom, thus happily introduced, was followed with such zeal by high and
low that on New Year’s day, during the reign of Peter Stuyvesant, New
Amsterdam was the most thoroughly be-kissed community in all Christendom.

The Trumpeter referred to by the humorous historian was Van Corlear, of
whom, on the eve of a famous Dutch military campaign, it is said:

“It was a moving sight to see the buxom lasses, how they hung about
the doughty Antony Van Corlear,—for he was a jolly, rosy-faced, lusty
bachelor, fond of his joke, and withal a desperate rogue among the women.
Fain would they have kept him to comfort them while the army was away;
for, besides what I have said of him, it is no more than justice to add
that he was a kind-hearted soul, noted for his benevolent attentions
in comforting disconsolate wives during the absence of their husbands;
and this made him to be very much regarded by the honest burghers of
the city. But nothing could keep the valiant Antony from following the
heels of the old governor, whom he loved as he did his very soul; so,
embracing all the young vrouws, and giving every one of them that had
good teeth and rosy lips a dozen hearty smacks, he departed, loaded with
their kind wishes.”

Before leaving this lusty bachelor, who was such a “prodigious favorite”
with the women, it may be noted that he is said to have been the first to
collect that famous toll levied on the fair sex at Kissing Bridge, on the
highway to Hellgate. The bridge referred to by Diedrich still exists, but
the toll is seldom collected nowadays, except on sleighing-parties, by
the descendants of the patriarchs, who still preserve the traditions of
the city.


KISS-ME-QUICK.

Bartlett, in his “Dictionary of Americanisms,” tells us that the
“Kiss-Me-Quick” is a home-made, quilted bonnet, which does not extend
beyond the face. It is chiefly used to cover the head by ladies when
going to parties or to the theatre. Sam Slick says, in “Human Nature:”

“She holds out with each hand a portion of her silk dress, as if she was
walking a minuet, and it discloses a snow-white petticoat. Her step is
short and mincing, and she wears a new bonnet called a _kiss-me-quick_.”


HUSKING-FROLICS.

That early American poet, Joel Barlow, in his famous poem, “The Hasty
Pudding,” thus pleasantly refers to the New England husking bees:

  “For now, the corn-house filled, the harvest home,
  The invited neighbors to the _husking_ come;
  A frolic scene, where work, and mirth, and play
  Unite their charms to chase the hours away.
  Where the huge heap lies centred in the hall,
  The lamp suspended from the cheerful wall,
  Brown, corn-fed nymphs, and strong, hard-handed beaux,
  Alternate ranged, extend in circling rows,
  Assume their seats, the solid mass attack;
  The dry husks rustle, and the corn-cobs crack;
  The song, the laugh, alternate notes resound,
  And the sweet cider trips in silence round.
  The laws of husking every wight can tell,
  And sure no laws he ever keeps so well:
  For each red ear a general kiss he gains,
  With each smut ear he smuts the luckless swains;
  But when to some sweet maid a prize is cast,
  Red as her lips, and taper as her waist,
  She walks the round and culls one favored beau,
  Who leaps the luscious tribute to bestow.
  Various the sports, as are the wits and brains
  Of well-pleased lasses and contending swains;
  Till the vast mound of corn is swept away,
  And he that gets the last ear wins the day.”


TAKING TOLL AT THE BRIDGE.

The old custom of “taking toll” has been humorously commemorated by
the Belgian artist Dillens, in a painting of singular beauty. It was
exhibited at the Paris International Exhibition in 1855, and purchased
by the late Emperor of the French. The scene is in Zealand. A quiet
summer evening invites the peasantry of the country to a stroll. Three
couples, habited in Sunday or holiday costume, have in their walks
reached a bridge. Whether or not it is a legal exaction that a toll
must be enforced there, is little to the purpose, but one of a peculiar
character is demanded, and is most willingly paid by the first pair who
reach the spot: the buxom maiden, whose pleasant upturned face shows she
has no reluctance to submit to the agreeable extortion, is quite as ready
to pay the toll as her lover is to take it. Of course the example will be
followed by their companions behind, though the two young men pretend to
be quite unconscious of what is going on, and one of the females affects
a look of surprise.


A BRAVE ICELAND GIRL.

Mr. Waller, in his interesting account of a visit to Iceland in 1872,
gives us a very clear idea of some of the customs of the people, whom he
found inconveniently hospitable. Among other incidents, he relates the
following instance of native kindness and feminine courage:

“In the morning I made a small study, and, after a very tolerable meal
and many good wishes, we rode off. All went well until we came to the
river Markafljot, which happened to be very much flooded. Not liking to
attempt to swim under the circumstances, we rode on down the bank for
some miles, and fortunately found a house.

“Knocking at the door, we asked, ‘Is the river very deep?’

“‘Very,’ said a voice from the inside.

“‘Is there a man who will show us a ford?’ we asked again.

“‘No,’ was the reply; ‘both Jan and Olave are up in the mountains; but
one of the girls will do quite as well. Here, Thora, go and show the
Englishmen the way.’

“Immediately an exceedingly handsome young woman ran out, and, nodding
kindly to me, went around to the back of the house, caught a pony, put a
bridle on it, and, not taking the trouble to fetch a saddle, vaulted on
his bare back, and, sitting astride, drove her heels into its sides and
galloped off down the river-bank as hard as she could go, shouting for us
to follow.

“We became naturally rather excited at such a display of dash on the part
of such a pretty girl, and started off immediately in chase. But, though
we did our utmost to catch her, she increased her distance hand over
hand. There was no doubt about it,—she had as much courage as ever we
could boast of, and in point of horsemanship was a hundred yards ahead of
either of us.

“For about half a mile we rattled along, when suddenly she pulled up
short on a sand-bank.

“‘You can cross here,’ she said, ‘but you must be careful. Make straight
for that rock right over there, and when you have reached it you will be
able to see the cairn of stones we built to show the landing-place.’

“‘All right,’ I said. ‘Good-by.’

“She looked puzzled for a moment, and then said, ‘I’ll come through with
you: it will be safer.’

“‘Good gracious, Bjarni, don’t let her come!’ I said: ‘she is sure to be
drowned, and I can’t get her out with all those wet clothes on. Tell her
to go back.’

“But before I was half-way through the sentence, she had urged her horse
into the water, and in a moment was twenty yards into the river. Of
course we followed as quickly as possible, and after a great deal of
splashing reached the middle of the flood. ‘Now,’ she said, bringing her
horse up abreast with mine, and pointing with her whip, ‘there’s the
mark.’ The water was running level with the horses’ withers, and it was
only by lifting their heads very high that they could keep their noses
clear.

“‘Good-by,’ she said; ‘God bless you,’ and, before I was quite aware of
it, kissed me on the cheek.

“I was about to return the compliment, but she was gone; and, a few
minutes after, we saw her, a mere speck in the distance, galloping over
the plain.

“Kissing in Iceland is a custom similar to shaking hands here. I would
have expected it in ordinary situations but a kiss in the midst of
boundless waters was, to say the least of it, strange. It was certainly
the wettest one I ever had in my life.”


PARAGUAYAN COMPULSION.

“Everybody in Paraguay smokes,” says a South American traveler, “and
every female above the age of thirteen chews. I am wrong. They do not
chew, but put tobacco in their mouths, keep it there constantly, except
when eating, and, instead of chewing it, roll it about and suck it.
Imagine yourself about to salute the red lips of a magnificent little
Hebe, arrayed with satin and flashing with diamonds, as she puts you back
with one delicate hand, while with the other she draws forth from her
mouth a brownish-black roll of tobacco quite two inches long, looking
like a monster grub, and then, depositing the savory lozenge on the brim
of your sombrero, puts up her face and is ready for a salute. I have
sometimes seen an over-delicate foreigner turn away with a shudder of
loathing under such circumstances, and get the epithet of ‘the savage!’
applied to him by the offended beauty for his sensitive squeamishness.
However, one soon gets used to this in Paraguay, where you are, perforce
of custom, obliged to kiss every lady you are introduced to, and one-half
you meet are really tempting enough to render you regardless of the
consequences, and you would sip the dew of the proffered lip in the
face of a tobacco-factory,—even in the double-distilled honeydew of Old
Virginia.”


A NEW YORK DRUMMER’S PREDICAMENT.

At Big Creek, Arkansas, they have a peculiar fashion, which sometimes
proves embarrassing. As there is no preacher within thirty miles, the way
for marrying is by kissing across a table. Recently, a New York drummer
who was there on business put up at a private house, and became quite
intimate with the inmates. One evening he was fooling around one of the
girls, and trying the sweetness of her temper, when she gave his whiskers
a pull and ran. He followed. She got the table between them. He chased
her around it several times. When out of breath, he stopped on the other
side, and, making a wild plunge, caught her in his arms and gave her a
hearty kiss. She then sat down on the sofa, and they talked pleasantly
for a couple of hours,—he thinking it singular that she should sit up so
late.

At last she said, “Don’t you think it’s about time we went to bed?”

“I guess you are right,” he remarked; “let’s go.”

She lit a candle, and he was about to do the same, when she said, “I
reckon one’s enough. One candle will light two folks to bed.”

“Undoubtedly it would, when those two people occupy the same room. But
your candle won’t illuminate my chamber.”

“Ain’t we going to occupy the same room? Ain’t we married?”

“Ain’t we what?” shouted the gentleman.

“Married! Didn’t you kiss me across the table? That married us.”

A cold sweat spread over the drummer. He saw in an instant that if he
said he wasn’t married to her she would make an outcry, and then her
loving and much-tobacco-consuming father would arise in his wrath and
carve him into cutlets, and her brothers would bring down their shot-guns
and empty the contents into him. He must be strategic. He must put her
off. So he said:

“Fairest of your sex, permit me to remark that I did not know that
kissing across the table constituted a marriage-ceremony. But I am
content. I have never seen one who so completely filled my idea of a
beautiful, sweet, loving, and modest woman. However, I would never think
of holding you to this marriage until I had asked the permission of your
father to pay my addresses to you. To-morrow, at dinner, when the entire
family are present, I will propose for your fair hand.”

This satisfied the lady, and, after bestowing upon him a fervent kiss,
she went to her room, and he went to his. He packed his carpet-bag,
took off his boots, and made tracks for the nearest railroad-station.
He didn’t feel entirely safe until he had reached St. Louis. He hasn’t
informed his wife of this little adventure. He’s afraid she might write
out to Arkansas for the facts in the case, and then he might get arrested
for bigamy. Women sometimes won’t listen to reason, you know.


A DANGEROUS GAME.

“Drop the handkerchief” is a dangerous game. Desdemona dropped her
handkerchief, and it cost her her life. Handkerchiefs have played a great
deal of mischief. A handkerchief ruptured a Baptist church in Dedham,
Mass. There was a church sociable in the chapel, and they “played plays,”
and “drop the handkerchief” was one of the plays. We don’t remember just
how it’s done, but they stand in a circle, promiscuously, and a lady,
taking a handkerchief, walks around on the outside of the circle and
drops the handkerchief behind one of the male persuasion, and he runs
after her, or he don’t—we forget which—but, any way, if he catches her,
or if he don’t—we forget which—he can kiss her. There is kissing about
it, any way, whether he catches her or not, for “drop the handkerchief”
would be no play with kissing left out. And “drop the handkerchief” is a
real play, and when grown-up people play, kissing is the main part. So we
know there is kissing in it; and the account of this Dedham affair says
“the game involves kissing,” to which the Rev. Mr. Foster, pastor, took
exception, and he declared “right out loud” that the “church was built
for a house of God, and not for kissing-parties.” And one of the young
men who was “involved” in the kissing-party even threatened to smite the
parson, and the account says “the pleasure of the evening was destroyed,”
and the Rev. Mr. Foster resigned his charge.


A QUESTION OF TASTE.

The Dunkards, at their national convention at Girard, Ill., discussed
whether white members were bound to salute colored ones with the holy
kiss. After mature deliberation, it was decided to be a matter of
taste merely, and that, while those who chose to indulge in universal
osculation, irrespective of race or color, should have full liberty to
do so, no member should feel himself obliged to follow such example.
The decision doubtless, it is said, lightened many anxious hearts. The
Dunkards, or German Baptists, wear broad-brimmed hats, and fasten their
shad-belly coats close up to the throat; wear no neck-ties, and never
waste time in blacking their boots; consider buttons too much like
jewelry, and tie up their clothes with strings; live frugally, and eschew
cakes and sweets; work much, and spend little; never are wealthy, and
yet have no poor among them; kiss promiscuously in public, and have no
jealousies; never give the first word, and never answer back; regard
ancient customs, and disregard the new; never hold office, and never take
contracts.


THE LATTER-DAY KISS OF PEACE.

The members of the United Brethren Church, or “Church of God,” in
Pennsylvania, observe the sacrament of feet-washing inculcated in the
thirteenth chapter of St. John’s Gospel. The ceremony is thus described
by a Pittsburg reporter:

“The front seats were entirely filled by men and women who desired to
take part in the ceremony. The females, however, largely preponderated,
and of both sexes there were probably twenty-five or thirty. The pastor
partially filled two basins with water. The feet-washing was done by a
man and woman, each of whom wore an apron in imitation of the girdle
worn by Christ, and each, taking up a basin of water, washed one by one
the feet of those of their own sex, the shoes and stockings as a matter
of course having been taken off. Both feet were placed in the basin,
and upon being taken out were wiped with the apron worn by the washer,
whereupon the one performing the ceremony and the one submitting to it
shook hands and kissed each other, there being no distinction at all
made in the matter of sex, the men kissing each other as well as the
women. While this peculiar ordinance was being attended to, the audience
manifested the most eager and intense interest. People crowded forward in
the aisles to get a good look at it, and so great was the curiosity of
those occupying the back seats that many stood up on the benches for the
purpose of getting a better view. During the performance of the ceremony
the congregation sang, with unusual vigor,—

  “‘This is the way I long have sought,
  And mourned because I found it not.’”


NATIONAL DIFFERENCES.

An eminent English authoress was leaving an afternoon concert in London,
when two old ladies from the country, finding that she was the writer of
books that had delighted them, rushed up to her and begged permission to
kiss her hand. The authoress blushed deeply, and began tugging at her
tight-fitting glove. The glove was only withdrawn after a minute or two
of effort, causing much embarrassment to the modest authoress. A French
gentleman, who had witnessed the proceeding, remarked that if it had been
George Sand she would instantly have thrown her arms around the old women
and kissed each on both cheeks.


DETECTIVE UTILITY.

Some ungallant writers assert that in the desire of the ancients to test
the sobriety of their wives and daughters, who it seems were apt to make
too free with the juice of the grape, notwithstanding a prohibition
to the contrary, originated a practice reprobated by Socrates the
philosopher, Cato the elder, and Ambrose the saint, and lauded by lyrists
and lovers from the beginning of time. The refinement of manners among
the classic dames and damsels before mentioned was probably pretty much
upon a par with that depicted in the “Beggars’ Opera,” when Macheath
exclaims, after saluting Jenny Diver, “One may know by your kiss that
your gin is excellent.”




[Illustration]




THE KISS IN POETRY.


SONNET UPON A STOLEN KISS.

  Now gentle Sleep hath closèd up those eyes
    Which, waking, kept my boldest thoughts in awe;
  And free access unto that sweet lip lies,
    From whence I long the rosy breath to draw.
  Methinks no wrong it were if I should steal,
    From those two melting rubies, one poor kiss;
  None sees the theft that would the theft reveal,
    Nor rob I her of aught that she can miss:
  Nay, should I twenty kisses take away,
    There would be little sign I would do so;
  Why then should I this robbery delay?
    Oh! she may wake, and therewith angry grow!
  Well, if she do, I’ll back restore that one,
  And twenty hundred thousand more for loan.

                                     GEORGE WITHER.


THE KISS—A DIALOGUE.

      1. Among thy fancies, tell me this:
      What is the thing we call a kiss?
      2. I shall resolve ye what it is:

      It is a creature born and bred
      Between the lips, all cherry red;
      By love and warm desires fed;
  _Chor._ And makes more soft the bridal bed.

      It is an active flame that flies
      First to the babies of the eyes,
      And charms them there with lullabies;
  _Chor._ And stills the bride too when she cries:

      Then to the chin, the cheek, the ear,
      It frisks, and flies,—now here, now there;
      ’Tis now far off, and then ’tis near;
  _Chor._ And here, and there, and everywhere.

      1. Has it a speaking virtue?—2. Yes.
      1. How speaks it, say?—2. Do you but this,
      Part your joined lips, then speaks your kiss;
  _Chor._ And this love’s sweetest language is.

      1. Has it a body?—2. Ay, and wings,
      With thousand rare encolorings;
      And as it flies, it gently sings,
  _Chor._ Love honey yields, but never stings.

                                    ROBERT HERRICK.


THE SIRENS’ SONG.

  Steer hither, steer your wingèd pines,
    All beaten mariners:
  Here lie undiscovered mines
    A prey to passengers;
  Perfumes far sweeter than the best
  Which make the phœnix urn and nest;
    Fear not your ships,
  Nor any to oppose you save our lips;
    But come on shore,
  Where no joy dies till love hath gotten more.

  For swelling waves, our panting breasts,
    Where never storms arise,
  Exchange; and be awhile our guests;
    For stars, gaze on our eyes;

  The compass, Love shall hourly sing,
    And, as he goes about the ring,
    We will not miss
  To tell each point he nameth with a kiss.

                  BROWNE: _Inner Temple Masque._


THE KISS.

  Oh that a joy so soon should waste!
    Or so sweet a bliss
    As a kiss
  Might not forever last!
  So sugared, so melting, so soft, so delicious,
    The dew that lies on roses,
    When the morn herself discloses,
  Is not so precious.
  Oh, rather than I would it smother,
  Were I to taste such another,
    It should be my wishing
    That I might die kissing.

                                     BEN JONSON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Thou more than most sweet glove,
  Unto my more sweet love,
  Suffer me to store with kisses
  This empty lodging that now misses
  The pure rosy hand that wore thee,
  Whiter than the kid that bore thee.
  Thou art soft, but that was softer;
  Cupid’s self hath kissed it ofter
  Than e’er he did his mother’s doves,
  Supposing her the queen of loves,
      That was thy mistress,
        Best of gloves.

                          BEN JONSON.


TO CHARIS.

[Begging another kiss, on condition of mending the former.]

    For Love’s sake, kiss me once again;
    I long, and should not beg in vain;
      Here’s none to spy or see:
    Why do you doubt or stay?
      I’ll taste as lightly as the bee,
  That doth but touch his flower and flies away.

    Once more, and, faith, I will be gone:
    Can he that loves ask less than one?
      Nay, you may err in this,
    And all your bounty wrong:
      This could be called but half a kiss;
  What we’ve but once to do, we should do long.

    I will but mend the last, and tell
    Where, how, it would have relished well;
      Join lip to lip, and try;
    Each suck the other’s breath,
      And, whilst our tongues perplexed lie,
  Let who will think us dead, or wish our death.

                                     BEN JONSON.


THE PARTING KISS.

  One kind kiss before we part,
    Drop a tear, and bid adieu:
  Though we sever, my fond heart,
    Till we meet, shall pant for you.

  Yet, yet weep not so, my love,
    Let me kiss that falling tear:
  Though my body must remove,
    All my soul will still be here.

  All my soul, and all my heart,
    And every wish shall pant for you;
  One kind kiss, then, ere we part,
    Drop a tear, and bid adieu.

                              DODSLEY.


YIELDING TO TEMPTATION.

  What a rout do you make for a single sweet kiss!
    I seized it, ’tis true, and I ne’er shall repent it.
  May he ne’er enjoy one who shall think ’twas amiss;
    But for me, I thank dear Cytherea who sent it.

  You may pout, and look prettily cross; but, I pray,
    What business so near to my lips had your cheek?
  If you _will_ put temptation so pat in one’s way,
    Saints, resist if you can; but for _me_, I’m too weak.

  But come, dearest Delia, our quarrel let’s end;
    Nor will I by force, what you gave not, retain.
  By allowing the kiss I’m forever your friend;
    If you say that I _stole_ it,—why, _take it again_.

                                        HORACE WALPOLE.


INES SENT A KISS TO ME.

[From the Spanish of Silvestre.]

  Ines sent a kiss to me,
    While we danced upon the green:
  Let that kiss a blessing be,
    And conceal no woes unseen.

  How I dared I know not now,—
    While we danced, I gently said,
    Smiling, “Give me, lovely maid,
  Give me one sweet kiss!”—when, lo!
  Gathering blushes robed her brow,
    And, with love and fear afraid,
  Thus she spoke: “I’ll send the kiss
  In a calmer day of bliss.”

  Then I cried, “Dear maid! what day
    Can be half so sweet as this?
  Throw not hopes and joys away;
    Send, oh, send the promised kiss!
  Can so bright a gift be mine,
    Bought without a pang of pain?
  ’Tis perchance a ray divine,
    Darker night to bring again.

  “Could I dwell on such a thought,
    I of very joy should die;
  Naught of earth’s enjoyments, naught,
    Could be like that ecstasy.
  I will pay her interest meet,
    When her lips shall breathe on me,
  And for every kiss so sweet
    Give her many more than three.”


THE WANDERING KNIGHT’S SONG.

[From the Spanish.]

  My ornaments are arms,
    My pastime is in war,
  My bed is cold upon the wold,
    My lamp yon star.

  My journeyings are long,
    My slumbers short and broken;
  From hill to hill I wander still,
    Kissing thy token.

  I ride from land to land,
    I sail from sea to sea:
  Some day more kind I fate may find,
    Some night kiss thee!


THE COCK AND THE FOX.

[From the Fables of La Fontaine.]

  Upon a tree there mounted guard
    A veteran cock, adroit and cunning;
    When to the roots a fox up running
  Spoke thus, in tones of kind regard:
  “Our quarrel, brother, ’s at an end;
  Henceforth I hope to live your friend;
    For peace now reigns
    Throughout the animals’ domains.
  I bear the news. Come down, I pray,
    And give me the embrace fraternal;
  And please, my brother, don’t delay:
    So much the tidings do concern all,
  That I must spread them far to-day.
  Now you and yours can take your walks
  Without a fear or thought of hawks;
  And should you clash with them or others,
  In us you’ll find the best of brothers;—
    For which you may, this joyful night,
    Your merry bonfires light.
    But, first, let’s seal the bliss
    With one fraternal kiss.”
  “Good friend,” the cock replied, “upon my word,
  A better thing I never heard;
    And doubly I rejoice
    To hear it from your voice:
  And, really, there must be something in it,
  For yonder come two greyhounds, who, I flatter
  Myself, are couriers on this very matter;
  They come so fast, they’ll be here in a minute.
  I’ll down, and all of us will seal the blessing
  With general kissing and caressing.”
  “Adieu,” said fox; “my errand’s pressing;
    I’ll hurry on my way,
    And we’ll rejoice some other day.”
  So off the fellow scampered, quick and light,
  To gain the fox-holes of a neighboring height,—
  Less happy in his stratagem than flight.
    The cock laughed sweetly in his sleeve;—
    ’Tis doubly sweet deceiver to deceive.


ANACREONTIC.

[From the French of Menage.]

  As, dancing o’er the enamelled plain,
  The floweret of the virgin train,
  My soul’s Corinna, lightly played,
  Young Cupid saw the graceful maid;
  He saw, and in a moment flew,
  And round her neck his arms he threw,
  And said, with smiles of infant joy,
  “Oh! kiss me, mother, kiss thy boy!”
  Unconscious of a mother’s name,
  The modest virgin blushed with shame;
  And, angry Cupid scarce believing
  That vision could be so deceiving,
  Thus to mistake his Cyprian dame,
  The little infant blushed with shame.
  “Be not ashamed, my boy,” I cried,
  For I was lingering by his side;
  “Corinna and thy lovely mother,
  Believe me, are so like each other
  That clearest eyes are oft betrayed,
  And take thy Venus for the maid.”


THE LANDLADY’S DAUGHTER.

[From the German of Uhland.]

  There came three students over the Rhine:
  Dame Werter’s house they entered in:
  “Dame Werter, hast thou good beer and wine
  And where’s that lovely daughter of thine?”

  “My beer and my wine are fresh and clear,
  My daughter is lying cold on her bier.”
  They stepped within the chamber of rest,
  Where shrined lay the maiden, in black robes dressed.

  The first he drew from her face the veil:
  “Ah! wert thou alive, thou maiden so pale,”
  He said, as he gazed with saddened brow,
  “How dearly would I love thee now!”

  The second he covered the face anew,
  And, weeping, he turned aside from the view:
  “Ah me, that thou liest on the cold bier,
  The one I have loved for so many a year!”

  The third once more uplifted the veil:
  He kissed the lips so deadly pale;
  “Thee loved I _ever_, _still_ love I thee,
  And thee will I love through eternity.”

  And that kiss—that kiss—with Promethean flame
  Thrilled with new life the quivering frame;
  And the maid uprose, and stood by his side,
  That student’s own loved and loving bride!


BLOOMING NELLY.

  On a bank of flowers, in a summer day,
    For summer lightly drest,
  The youthful, blooming Nelly lay,
    With love and sleep opprest;
  When Willie, wandering through the wood,
    Who for her favor oft had sued,
  He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
    And trembled where he stood.

  Her closèd eyes, like weapons sheathed,
    Were sealed in soft repose;
  Her lip, still as she fragrant breathed,
    It richer dyed the rose.
  The springing lilies sweetly prest,
    Wild-wanton, kissed her rival breast:
  He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
    His bosom ill at rest.

  Her robes, light-waving in the breeze,
    Her tender limbs embrace,
  Her lovely form, her native ease,
    All harmony and grace:
  Tumultuous tides his pulses roll,
    A faltering, ardent kiss he stole:
  He gazed, he wished, he feared, he blushed,
    And sighed his very soul.

  As flies the partridge from the brake
    On fear-inspirèd wings,
  So Nelly, starting, half awake,
    Away affrighted springs:
  But Willie followed,—as he should;
    He overtook her in the wood:
  He vowed, he prayed, he found the maid
    Forgiving all and good.

                                       BURNS.


BONNIE PEGGY ALISON.

  CHORUS.

      I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
        And I’ll kiss thee o’er again,
      And I’ll kiss thee yet, yet,
        My bonnie Peggy Alison!

  Ilk care and fear, when thou art near,
    I ever mair defy them, O!
  Young kings upon their hansel throne
    Are no sae blest as I am, O!

  When in my arms, wi’ a’ thy charms,
    I clasp my countless treasure, O!
  I seek nae mair o’ heaven to share
    Than sic a moment’s pleasure, O!

  And by thy een, sae bonnie blue,
    I swear I’m thine forever, O!
  And on thy lips I seal my vow,
    And break it shall I never, O!

                            BURNS.


DINNA KISS AFORE FOLK.

[An old Scotch song.]

  Behave yoursel’ afore folk,
  And dinna be sae rude to me
  As kiss me sae afore folk.

  It’s no through hatred o’ a kiss
  That I sae plainly tell you this;
  But ah! I tak’ it sae amiss
    To be sae teased afore folk.
    Behave yoursel’ afore folk;
    When we’re alane, ye may tak’ ane,
    But ne’er a ane afore folk.

  Ye tell me that my face is fair;
  It may be sae,—I dinna care,—
    But ne’er again gar ’t blush sae sair
    As ye hae dune afore folk.
  Ye tell me that my lips are sweet:
  Sic tales, I doubt, are a deceit;
  At any rate, it’s hardly meet
    To pree their sweets afore folk.

  But, gin you really do insist
  That I should suffer to be kissed,
  Gae get a license frae the priest,
    And mak’ me yours afore folk;
    Behave yourself afore folk,
  And when we’re ane, baith flesh and bane,
    Ye may tak’ ten afore folk.


DON JUAN AND HAIDEE.

  They looked up to the sky, whose floating glow
    Spread like a rosy ocean, vast and bright;
  They gazed upon the glittering sea below,
    Whence the broad moon rose circling into sight;
  They heard the waves splash, and the wind so low,
    And saw each other’s dark eyes darting light
  Into each other—and, beholding this,
  Their lips drew near, and clung into a kiss;

  A long, long kiss, a kiss of youth, and love,
    And beauty, all concentrating like rays
  Into one focus, kindled from above;
    Such kisses as belong to early days,
  When heart, and soul, and sense, in concert move,
    And the blood’s lava, and the pulse a blaze,
  Each kiss a heart-quake,—for a kiss’s strength,
  I think, it must be reckoned by its length.

  By length I mean duration; theirs endured
    Heaven knows how long—no doubt they never reckoned;
  And if they had, they could not have secured
    The sum of their sensations to a second:
  They had not spoken; but they felt allured,
    As if their souls and lips each other beckoned,
  Which being joined, like swarming bees they clung—
  Their hearts the flowers from whence the honey sprung.

                                                  BYRON.


THE FIRST KISS OF LOVE.

  Away with your fictions of flimsy romance,
    Those tissues of falsehood which folly has wove!
  Give me the mild beam of the soul-breathing glance,
    Or the rapture that dwells on the first kiss of love!

  Ye rhymers, whose bosoms with phantasy glow,
    Whose pastoral passions are made for the grove,
  From what blest inspiration your sonnets would flow,
    Could you ever have tasted the first kiss of love!

  If Apollo should e’er his assistance refuse,
    Or the Nine be disposed from your service to rove,
  Invoke them no more; bid adieu to the muse,
    And try the effect of the first kiss of love.

  I hate you, ye cold compositions of art;
    Though prudes may condemn me, and bigots reprove,
  I court the effusions that spring from the heart
    Which throbs with delight at the first kiss of love.

  Your shepherds, your flocks, those fantastical themes,
    Perhaps may amuse, yet they never can move:
  Arcadia displays but a region of dreams:
    What are visions like these to the first kiss of love?

  Oh! cease to affirm that man, since his birth,
    From Adam till now, has with wretchedness strove:
  Some portion of Paradise still is on earth,
    And Eden revives in the first kiss of love.

  When age chills the blood, when our pleasures are past,—
    For years fleet away with the wings of the dove,—
  The dearest remembrance will still be the last,
    Our sweetest memorial the first kiss of love.

                                                   BYRON.


TEACHER AND PUPIL.

  Give me, my love, that billing kiss
    I taught you one delicious night,
  When, turning epicures in bliss,
    We tried inventions of delight.

  Come, gently steal my lips along,
    And let your lips in murmurs move;
  Ah, no!—again—that kiss was wrong:
    How can you be so dull, my love?

  “Cease, cease!” the blushing girl replied,—
    And in her milky arms she caught me;
  “How can you thus your pupil chide?
    You know _’twas in the dark_ you taught me!”

                                         MOORE.


THINE AT LAST.

  Grow to my lip, thou sacred kiss,
    On which my soul’s beloved swore
  That there should come a time of bliss
    When she would mock my hopes no more;
  And fancy shall thy glow renew,
    In sighs at morn, and dreams at night,
  And none shall steal thy holy dew
    Till thou’rt absolved by rapture’s rite.

  Sweet hours that are to make me blest,
    Oh! fly, like breezes, to the goal,
    And let my love, my more than soul,
  Come panting to this fevered breast;
  And while in every glance I drink
    The rich o’erflowings of her mind,
  Oh! let her all impassioned sink,
    In sweet abandonment resigned,
  Blushing for all our struggles past,
  And murmuring, “I am thine at last!”

                                      MOORE.


JULIA’S KISS.

  When infant Bliss in roses slept,
  Cupid upon his slumber crept,
  And, while a balmy sigh he stole,
  Exhaling from the infant’s soul,
  He smiling said, “With this, with this
  I’ll scent my Julia’s burning kiss!”

  Nay, more: he stole to Venus’ bed,
  Ere yet the sanguine flush had fled
  Which Love’s divinest, dearest flame
  Had kindled through her panting frame.
  Her soul still dwelt on memory’s themes,
  Still floated in voluptuous dreams;
  And every joy she felt before
  In slumber now was acting o’er.
  From her ripe lips, which seemed to thrill
  As in the war of kisses still,
  And amorous to each other clung,
  He stole the dew that trembling hung,
  And smiling said, “With this, with this
  I’ll bathe my Julia’s burning kiss!”

                                       MOORE.


TO A LADY ON HER TRANSLATION OF VOITURE’S “KISS.”

           “Mon âme sur ma lèvre était lors tout entière,
              Pour savourer le miel qui sur la vôtre était;
            Mais en me retirant, elle resta derrière,
              Tant de ce doux plaisir l’amorce l’arrêtoit!”

                                                  VOITURE.

  How heavenly was the poet’s doom,
    To breathe his spirit through a kiss,
  And lose within so sweet a tomb
    The trembling messenger of bliss!

  And, ah! his soul returned to feel
    That it _again_ could ravished be;
  For in the kiss that thou didst steal,
    His life and soul have fled to thee!

                                  MOORE.


THE KISS.

  One kiss, dear maid, I said, and sighed;
  Your scorn the little boon denied.
  Ah, why refuse the blameless bliss?
  Can danger lurk within a kiss?
  Yon viewless wanderer of the vale,
  The spirit of the western gale,
  At morning’s break, at evening’s close,
  Inhales the sweetness of the rose,
  And hovers o’er th’ uninjured bloom,
  Sighing back the soft perfume.
  Her nectar-breathing kisses fling
  Vigor to the zephyr’s wing,
  And she the glitter of the dew
  Scatters on the rose’s hue.
  Bashful, lo! she bends her head,
  And darts a blush of deeper red.
  Too well those lovely lips disclose
  The triumphs of the opening rose:
  O fair! O graceful! bid them prove
  As passive to the breath of love!
  In tender accents, faint and low,
  Well pleased I hear the whispered “No!”
  The whispered “No!” how little meant,
  Sweet falsehood that endears consent!
  For on those lovely lips the while
  Dawns the soft relenting smile,
  And tempts, with feigned dissuasive coy,
  The gentle violence of the joy.

                                COLERIDGE.


TO A CHILD EMBRACING HIS MOTHER.

  Love thy mother, little one!
    Kiss and clasp her neck again:
  Hereafter she may have a son
    Will kiss and clasp her neck in vain.
  Love thy mother, little one!

  Gaze upon her living eyes,
    And mirror back her love for thee:
  Hereafter thou mayst shudder sighs
    To meet them when they cannot see.
  Gaze upon her living eyes!

  Press her lips the while they glow
    With love that they have often told:
  Hereafter thou mayst press in woe
    And kiss them till thine own are cold.
  Press her lips the while they glow!

  Oh, revere her raven hair!
    Although it be not silver-gray,
  Too early death, led on by care,
    May snatch save one dear lock away.
  Oh, revere her raven hair!

  Pray for her at eve and morn,
    That Heaven may long the stroke defer;
  For thou mayst live the hour forlorn
    When thou wilt ask to die with her.
  Pray for her at eve and morn!

                              THOMAS HOOD.


KISSES.

  My heart is beating with all things that are,
    My blood is wild unrest;
  With what a passion pants yon eager star
    Upon the water’s breast!
  Clasped in the air’s soft arms the world doth sleep;
    Asleep its moving seas, its humming lands;
  With what a hungry lip the ocean deep
    Lappeth forever the white-breasted sands!
  What love is in the moon’s eternal eyes,
  Leaning unto the earth from out the midnight skies!

  Thy large dark eyes are wide upon my brow,
    Filled with as tender light
  As yon low moon doth fill the heavens now,
    This mellow autumn night!
  On the late flowers I linger at thy feet;
    I tremble when I touch thy garment’s rim;
  I clasp thy waist, I feel thy bosom’s beat,—
    Oh, kiss me into faintness sweet and dim!
  Thou leanest to me as a swelling peach,
  Full-juiced and mellow, leaneth to the taker’s reach.

  Thy hair is loosened by that kiss you gave;
    It floods my shoulders o’er;
  Another yet! Oh, as a weary wave
    Subsides upon the shore,
  My hungry being, with its hopes, its fears,
    My heart like moon-charmed waters, all unrest,
  Yet strong as is despair, as weak as tears,
    Doth faint upon thy breast!
  I feel thy clasping arms, my cheek is wet
  With thy rich tears. One kiss, sweet, sweet. Another yet!

                                           ALEXANDER SMITH.


GIVE ME KISSES.

  Give me kisses—do not stay
  Counting in that careful way;
  All the coins your lips can print
  Never will exhaust the mint.
          Kiss me, then,
  Every moment—and again!

  Give me kisses—do not stop,
  Measuring nectar by the drop;
  Though to millions they amount,
  They will never drain the fount.
          Kiss me, then,
  Every moment—and again!

  Give me kisses—all is waste
  Save the luxury we taste,
  And for kissing—kisses live
  Only when we take or give.
          Kiss me, then,
  Every moment—and again!

  Give me kisses—though their worth
  Far exceeds the gems of earth;
  Never pearls so rich and pure
  Cost so little, I am sure.
          Kiss me, then,
  Every moment—and again.

  Give me kisses—nay, ’tis true,
  I am just as rich as you,
  And for every kiss I owe,
  I can pay you back, you know.
          Kiss me, then,
  Every moment—and again!

                               SAXE.


TO MY LOVE.

  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
    Malice has ever a vigilant ear:
    What if Malice were lurking near?
          Kiss me, dear!
  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
    Envy too has a watchful ear:
    What if Envy should chance to hear?
          Kiss me, dear!
  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low;
    Trust me, darling, the time is near
    When lovers may love with never a fear:
          Kiss me, dear!
  Kiss me softly, and speak to me low.

                                      SAXE.


A DINNER AND A KISS.

  “I have brought your dinner, father,”
    The blacksmith’s daughter said,
  As she took from her arm the kettle
    And lifted its shining lid.

  “There is not any pie or pudding,
    So I will give you this.”
  And upon the toil-worn forehead
    She left the childish kiss.

  The blacksmith took off his apron,
    And dined in happy mood,
  Wondering much at the savor
    Hid in his humble food;

  While all about him were visions
    Full of prophetic bliss;
  But he never thought of the magic
    In his little daughter’s kiss.

  And she, with her kettle swinging,
    Merrily trudged away,
  Stopping at sight of a squirrel,
    Catching some wild bird’s lay.

  And I thought, how many a shadow
    Of life and fate we would miss,
  If always our frugal dinners
    Were seasoned with a kiss.


A HINT.

    Our Daisy lay down
    In her little night-gown,
  And kissed me again and again,
    On forehead and cheek,
    On lips that would speak,
  But found themselves shut, to their gain.

    Then, foolish, absurd,
    To utter a word,
  I asked her the question so old,
    That wife and that lover
    Ask over and over,
  As if they were surer when told!

    There, close at her side,
    “Do you love me?” I cried;
  She lifted her golden-crowned head;
    A puzzled surprise
    Shone in her gray eyes—
  “Why, that’s why I kiss you!” she said.

                        ANNA C. BRACKETT.


THROWING KISSES.

  Girlie on the stairway, mother up above;
  Girlie’s eyes and mother’s full of tender love;
  Girlie’s little fingers throw a hurrying kiss
  Right to mother, loving, fearing not to miss;
  Mother throws one downward to her Golden-hair;
  Girlie cries, “They’re meeting, mother, in the air.”

  By-and-by the girlie stands all, all alone,
  Looking sadly upward for the mother, gone
  Up the heavenly stairway. Girlie, standing here,
  Knows the mother surely surely must be near.
  If she throws her kisses up the golden stair,
  Will they meet the mother’s half-way in the air?

                                        MINNIE SLADE.


KISSES TO-DAY.

  Banish, O maiden, thy fears of to-morrow;
  Dash from thy cheek, love, the tear-drop of sorrow;
  Pleasure flies swiftly and sweetly away:
  Tears for to-morrow, but kisses to-day,—
              Kisses, love.

  Hear me, then, dearest, thy doubts gently chiding:
  Know’st thou not true love is ever confiding?
  Why snatch from Cupid his bandage away?
  Love sees no morrow, then kiss me to-day.
              Kiss me, love.


CONSECRATION.—A LOVER’S MOOD.

  All the kisses that I have given,
    I grudge from my soul to-day,
  And of all I have ever taken,
    I would wipe the thought away.

  How I wish my lips had been hermits,
    Held apart from kith and kin,
  That fresh from God’s holy service
    To Love’s they might enter in!

                           MISS BATES.


“UNDER THE ROSE.”

[A Platonic Kiss.]

  You kissed me, as if roses slipped
    Their rose-bud necklaces, and blew
  Such breaths as never yet have dipped
    The bee in fragrance over-shoe,
  While rose-leaves of their color stripped
    Themselves to make a blush for you.

  Nor chide with such a cold constraint,
    As if you laid the rose in snow;
  For this the summer stores her paint,
    The dappled twilights overflow
  With motley colors, pied and quaint,
    For kisses that in flowers do grow.

  Nor pout and tease: you did not mean
    So sweet a thing. Abide this test:
  In open markets grades are seen
    Of good and bad, in price expressed;
  The buyer’s purse must choose between;
    But when we give, we give the best.

  Yet if that color, sweet as bees,
    Of flower-flushes teases, see
  How we can pluck such thorns as these,
    That bleed in blushes, easily;
  For, kiss me, sweet, just as you please,
    I’ll take it as it pleases me.

                                   HARNEY.


PLATONIC KISSES.

  “What are they?” birdie, do you ask?
    Your forehead wears a puckered line,
  Oh! now you’ve found a dreadful task
    Even for a learnèd head like mine.
  Some questions are so hard! Ah, well,
    If even Plato’s self were here,
  The sage, I fancy, could not tell
    The riddle that you ask me, dear.

  My birdie, Plato was a sage,
    The first to find he had a soul;
  The life we live from youth to age,
    His wisdom taught, was not the whole
  And many theories Plato had
    To rule the impulse of mankind,
  Controlling all the base and bad
    Through stern dominion of the mind.

  And love, my birdie, Plato said,
    Should be communion of the soul,
  To glowing passion cold and dead,
    And intellect should rule the whole.
  Each soul another soul might find,
    And spirit-intercourse reveal
  A pure emotion of the mind,
    Like that we think the angels feel.

  But what Platonic kisses were
    I doubt if Plato ever knew,—
  Not like, my birdie, I infer,
    The long, sweet kisses I give you,
  And those you give me back again,
    Repeated oft, and never done;
  Not thus, I fancy, could it be
    Platonic brides were ever won.

  Philosophy, perhaps, had charms
    To satisfy great Athens’ sage,
  Indifferent to his lady’s arms,—
    Two heads bent o’er one musty page.
  But moderns, made of sterner stuff,
    Would clothe it with a gentler light,
  And, soul-communion not enough,
    Both sense and spirit would unite.

  Love’s sweetest charms they would not miss,
    Nor into earthly passion fall,
  So talk of a Platonic kiss,
    And thus contrive to get it all.
  But fondest theories, birdie sweet,
    Oft bring a harvest of regret.
  Now come and sit here at my feet.
    Well, have you understood me, pet?

  I thought not. What a pair of eyes!
    I’ll have to send you back to school.
  If Plato’s spirit could arise,
    We’d tell the ghost he was a fool.
  Now lift your sweet lips up to mine;
    I like the language that they speak;
  I know the rhetoric is not fine,—
    What dreadful work they’d make of Greek!

  Ah, how I love your little form!
    And now—be sure you sit quite still—
  Just hold my left hand, soft and warm;
    Don’t shake the one that drives the quill.
  Let Plato crown his love with bays,
    I’ll make you mistress of my life.
  I’ll love you, birdie, all my days,
    And crown you with the name of wife.


HOW IT HAPPENED.

  I pray you pardon me, Elsie,
    And smile that frown away
  That dims the light of your lovely face
    As thunder clouds the day.
  For on the spur of the instant,
    Before I thought, ’twas done,
  And those great gray eyes flashed bright and cold,
    Like an icicle in the sun.

  I was thinking of the summer
    When we were boys and girls,
  And wandering in the blossoming woods,
    And the gay winds romped with your curls;
  And you seemed to me the same little girl
    I kissed in the elder-path.
  I kissed the little girl’s lips, and, alas!
    I have roused a woman’s wrath.

  There is not much to pardon,
    For why were your lips so red?
  The blonde curls fell in a shower of gold
    From the proud, provoking head,
  And the beauty that flashed from the splendid eyes
    And played round the tender mouth
  Rushed over my soul like a warm, sweet wind
    That blows from the fragrant South.

  And where, after all, is the harm done?
    I believe we were made to be gay,
  And all of youth not given to love
    Is vainly squandered away,
  And strewn through life-long labors,
    Like gold in the desert sands,
  Are love’s swift kisses and sighs and vows,
    And the clasp of clinging hands.

  And when you are old and lonely,
    In memory’s magic shrine
  You will see on your thin and wasting hands,
    Like gems, those kisses of mine;
  And when you muse at evening,
    At the sound of some vanished name,
  The ghost of my kisses shall touch your lips
    And kindle your heart to flame.

                                      JOHN HAY.


IN AMBUSH.

  Half hidden in the holly’s shade,
  Dark with the weight of snow o’erlaid,
        I see you plainly!
  What plot are you two hatching now,
  Lurking beneath the sheltering bough?
        You’re hiding vainly!

  But never mind—with eyes downcast,
  I’ll let you think you have not passed
        Before my vision.
  “Let’s snowball him! ’twill be such fun!”
  The words are whispered low by one,
        In soft derision.

  Ho! ho! so that’s your little plot!
  You may be sure that I shall not
        Attempt to foil it!
  Besides, I can’t for very shame
  Turn tail and run; and such a game,
        ’Twere sin to spoil it!

  A warning shot,—it whizzes past!
  Another,—fairly hit at last!
        Nice warm work this is!
  Well, fire away! Your stock runs low;
  Reward must come at length, you know,—
        Returns of kisses!

  Bravo! I’ve caught you both at length!
  In vain resist with all your strength,
        And blushing faces!
  Love’s toll, you know, ’s a warmer thing
  Than making snowballs just to fling
        From secret places!


A LONG-BRANCH EPISODE.

  Upon the broad Atlantic sands
    I saw a maiden and her lover,
  Her dimpled fingers in his hands,
    Her shy blue eyes the sea looked over;
  With coy girl’s love to him she turned,
            And said, “Dear,
  Do you think that any one will know
  That you have dared to kiss me so?”

  Alone upon the pebbly strand
    Break ocean swell and pale moonbeam;
  The lovers are walking hand in hand
    From the bluff to where the gas-lamps stream;
  They reach the peopled colonnade:
            Trembling, she said,
  “Dear, I’m sure they all will know
  That you have dared to kiss me so.”

  The waltz floats through the casement low,
    And the lovers stand at the open door;
  The maid shyly whispers, “Will they know?”
    Her eyes seem fastened to the floor:
  Fond he looks down on the fair young face—
            “All will see
  That my arms are empty,” he said,
  “And no kisses cling to your lips so red.”

  They join the dancers’ merry whirl,
    The room is filled with beauties fair;
  With cheeks aflush and ruffled curl,
    My maiden dances with absent air;
  She fears that every one can tell.
            Yet, I trow,
  Only the lover and I could know
  Which was the girl that had been kissed so.


THREE KISSES.

  Three, only three, my darling,
    Separate, solemn, slow;
  Not like the swift and joyous ones
    We used to know,
  When we kissed because we loved each other,
    Simply to taste love’s sweet,
  And lavished our kisses as the summer
    Lavishes heat;
  But as they kiss whose hearts are wrung,
    When hope and fear are spent,
  And nothing is left to give, except
    A sacrament!

  First of the three, my darling,
    Is sacred unto pain;
  We have hurt each other often,
    We shall again,—
  When we pine because we miss each other,
    And do not understand
  How the written words are so much colder
    Than eye and hand.
  I kiss thee, dear, for all such pain
    Which we may give or take;
  Buried, forgiven before it comes,
    For our love’s sake.

  The second kiss, my darling,
    Is full of joy’s sweet thrill;
  We have blessed each other always,
    We always will.
  We shall reach until we feel each other,
    Beyond all time and space;
  We shall listen till we hear each other
    In every place;
  The earth is full of messengers
    Which love sends to and fro;
  I kiss thee, darling, for all joy
    Which we shall know!

  The last kiss, O my darling—
    My love—I cannot see,
  Through my tears, as I remember
    What it may be.
  We may die and never see each other,
    Die with no time to give
  Any sign that our hearts are faithful
    To die, as live.
  Token of what they will not see
    Who see our parting breath,
  This one last kiss, my darling, seals
    The seal of death!


TOO OLD FOR KISSES.

  My uncle Philip, hale old man,
    Has children by the dozen;
  Tom, Ned, and Jack, and Kate, and Ann—
    How many call me “cousin”?
  Good boys and girls, the best was Bess;
    I bore her on my shoulder,
  A little bit of loveliness
    That never should grow older!
  Her eyes had such a pleading way,
    They seemed to say, “Don’t strike me;”
  Then, growing bold, another day,
    “I mean to make you like me.”
  I liked my cousin, early, late;
    Who likes not little misses?
  She used to meet me at the gate,
    Just old enough for kisses.

  This was, I think, three years ago,—
    Before I went to college;
  I learned one thing there,—how to row,
    A healthy sort of knowledge.
  When I was plucked (we won the race),
    And all was at an end there,
  I thought of Uncle Philip’s place,
    And every country friend there.
  My cousin met me at the gate;
    She looked five, ten years older,—
  A tall young woman, still, sedate,
    With manners coyer, colder.
  She gave her hand with stately pride:
    “Why, what a greeting this is!
  You used to kiss me.” She replied,
    “I am too old for kisses.”

  I loved, I love my cousin Bess;
    She’s always in my mind now,—
  A full-blown bud of loveliness,
    The rose of womankind now:
  She must have suitors; old and young
    Must bow their heads before her;
  Vows must be made, and songs be sung,
    By many a mad adorer!
  But I must win her; she must give
    To me her youth and beauty;
  And I—to love her while I live
    Will be my happy duty;
  For she will love me soon or late,
    And be my bliss of blisses,
  Will come to meet me at the gate,
    Nor be too old for kisses!


WEDDING SONG.

[Polonaise.]

  Three suitors were with me to-day;
  They proffered love and treasure.
  The lordly one gave pleasant words,
  And many ells of ribbon;
  The second, plain of face and form,
  He counted coin and jewels;
  The third presented roses three,
  And coupled them with kisses.

  The first I fancied, and would greet
  Him warmly, as a brother;
  The second, gladly him I’d choose
  To be my nearest neighbor;
  But, oh, the third, of rosy gifts,
  Who stifled me with kisses,—
  I’d give to him these longing eyes,
  And all that life possesses.


THE KISS AT THE DOOR.

  When I took my leave last night,
    Nellie—she could do no more—
  Softly brought a candle-light
    Just to show me to the door.

  How it was I cannot tell,
    When I felt her hand in mine,
  Something said, “Why not as well
    Press her pretty lips to thine?”

  Then I clasped one hand quite tight,—
    T’other held the light, you know,—
  So that Nellie, helpless quite,
    Felt she couldn’t say me “No.”

  But she gave a little scream,
    That did ne’er the bliss deny;
  And—too brief the happy dream—
    In went she, and out went I.


A KISS.

  A kiss! oh, ’tis a magic spell
    That wildly thrills the breast,
  And bids it with emotion swell
    When lip to lip is pressed;
  ’Tis friendship’s breath, affection’s seal,
    And, though a transient bliss,
  The proudest, coldest heart must feel
    The rapture of a kiss.

  A kiss! yes, ’tis a dear delight,
    Whose memory often cheers,
  And sheds through clouds a radiance bright,
    In scenes of after-years.
  When sorrows o’er the bosom roll,
    Who hath not felt a bliss
  Spread swiftly through the glowing soul
    Beneath a magic kiss?


FIVE TWICES.

  “Papa, the bell’s a-ringin’
    For church—an’ mus’ you go?
  And I was been a-bringin’
    Your boots an’ fings for you.
  And that’s all I’m a-good for,
    Jus’ cos’ to love you some,
  And here’s my bestest hood, for
    To meet you comin’ home.

  “Now jus’ I want you kiss me
    Afore you goes away,
  ’Cause maybe you might miss me—
    Bein’ to church all day.
  Now I’m ‘your little mices,’
    To creep up on your knee;
  ’F you’ll kiss me _all five twices_,
    Why—then—I’ll—_let you be_.”[12]

  So climbs “my little mices”
    Up on my willing knees,
  And takes her full “five twices”
    As oft as doth her please;
  The while that I am drinking
    Kiss-cups of purest bliss,
  And, dreamy-joyous, thinking,
    Was ever love like this?

  Yet, mid my fond caressing,
    I mind the time of old
  When little ones, for blessing,
    The Christ-arms did enfold.
  And so I tell the story
    Unto my little maid,—
  How our Good Lord of Glory,
    While here with us he stayed,

  Would take the little children
    Up on his friendly knee,
  The while his kindness filled them
    With fearless, gentle glee.
  Then, soft and sweetly laying
    His dear hand on their head,
  They knew that he was praying,—
    They heard the prayer he said!

  And so, her blue eyes deeping,
    Upon her head I lay
  My hand, while, moved to weeping,
    Unto the Lord I say,
  “O loving, gracious Father,
    Bless this dear babe, I pray,
  And with thy people gather
    My child, at that great day.”

  Bathed in a holy beauty,
    The little maid slips down,
  And I to “higher duty”
    The chiming summons own.
  But childhood’s quaint devices
    Once more must needs appear:
  “_Did he kiss ’em all five twices?_”
    Is the last word I hear!

                            NUTTING.


NURSERY RHYMES.

  What is to me the sweetest thing
  That the morning light can bring?
        It is this,—
        My mother’s kiss.

  And, if gentle watch she’ll keep,
  What gives me the sweetest sleep?
        Only this,—
        My mother’s kiss.

  Nothing else so dear can be,
  Nothing brings such joy to me,
        As does this,—
        My mother’s kiss.

  Then, if I’m a pleasant child,
  Kind, obedient, and mild,
        I’ll have this,—
        My mother’s kiss.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Kiss me quick, my baby boy,—
  Mother’s darling, mother’s joy!
  Beat the little drum no more;
  Let the horse lie on the floor.

  Do not move a foot or hand;
  Kiss me, kiss me, where you stand,
  Through the chair while I am kneeling,
  And the flies look from the ceiling.

  That’s a noble little boy!
  Mother’s darling, mother’s joy!
  ’Twas a kiss well worth the getting;
  Kissing better is than fretting.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A kiss when I wake in the morning,
    A kiss when I go to bed,
  A kiss when I burn my fingers,
    A kiss when I bump my head.

  A kiss when my bath is over,
    A kiss when my bath begins;
  My mamma is full of kisses,
    As full as nurse is of pins.

  A kiss when I play with my rattle,
    A kiss when I pull her hair;
  She covered me over with kisses
    The day I fell from the stair.

  A kiss when I give her trouble,
    A kiss when I give her joy:
  There’s nothing like mamma’s kisses
    For her own little baby-boy.


RHAPSODIES.

  I.

  You kissed me, my head dropped low on your breast,
  With a feeling of shelter and infinite rest,
  While the holy emotion my tongue dared not speak
  Flushed up like a flame from my heart to my cheek!
  Your arms held me fast! Oh, your arms were so bold!
  Heart responded to heart in that passionate fold!
  Your glances seemed drawing my soul through mine eyes,
  As the sun draws the mist from the sea to the skies.

  And your lips clung to mine till I prayed, in my bliss,
  They might never unclasp from that rapturous kiss!
  You kissed me! my heart and my breast and my will
  In delicious delight for the moment stood still!
  Life had for me then no temptations, no charms,
  No vista of pleasure outside of your arms!
  And were I this moment an angel possessed
  Of the glory and peace that belong to the blest,
  I would cast my white robes unrepiningly down,
  And tear from my forehead its beautiful crown,
  To nestle once more in that haven of rest,
  With your lips pressed to mine, and my head on your breast!

  You kissed me! my soul in a bliss so divine
  Reeled and swooned like a man that is drunken with wine!
  And I thought, ’twere delicious to die then, if death
  Would come while my lips were still moist with your breath!
  ’Twere delicious to die, if my heart might grow cold
  While your arms wrapped me fast in that passionate hold!
  And these are the questions I ask day and night:
  Must my life taste but once such exquisite delight?
  Would you care if my breast were your shelter as then?
  And if I were there would you kiss me again?

  II.

  You kissed me: your arms round my neck were entwined,
  As the vine to the oak clings when pressed by the wind;
  Your breath, zephyr-like from some lone balmy isle,
  Shed a fragrance that heightened the charm of your smile,
  And banished all care, as the sun at mid-day
  Dispels the dark clouds which obscure his bright way.
  And now, as fond memory, with tints bright and rare,
  Paints thy rich coral lips as Love hovers there,
  I ask but one boon may be granted to me,—
  That I, like the oak, may forever shield thee.

  III.

  You kissed me, and responsively my lips to yours were pressed,
  While trembling came a long-drawn sigh deep from that throbbing breast.
  Your cheeks were bathed in blushes, while those pouting lips revealed
  That secret I had burned to know, yet you’d so long concealed;
  You loved me. With what ecstasy did I your form embrace,
  And kiss away the starting tear which marred that beauteous face!
  And now when absent, darling, my thoughts revert to thee,
  Thine image is reflected here, true as reality,
  And ever thus it will remain, in colors pure and bright,
  As a meteor in the sky, love, amid the gloom of night.


EXCERPTS FROM THE POETS.

  For would she of her gentilnesse,
  Withouten more me ones kesse,
  It were to me a grete guerdon.

                           CHAUCER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  O kiss! which dost those ruddy gems impart,
    Or gems, or fruits, of new-found paradise,
  Breathing all bliss and sweetening to the heart,
    Teaching dumb lips a nobler exercise,
  O kiss! which souls, e’en souls, together ties
    By links of love, and only nature’s art,
  How fain would I paint thee to all men’s eyes,
    Or of thy gifts, at least, shade out some part.

                                 SIR PHILIP SIDNEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  He her beholding, at her feet down fell,
    And kissed the ground on which her sole did tread,
  And washed the same with water, which did well
    From his moist eyes, and like two streams proceed.

                                              SPENSER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  These poor half-kisses kill me quite:
    Was ever man thus served?
  Amid an ocean of delight,
    For pleasure to be starved.

                               DRAYTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I do confess thou’rt sweet; yet find
    Thee such an unthrift of thy sweets,
  Thy favors are but like the wind,
    That kisseth everything that meets;
  And since thou canst with more than one,
  Thou’rt worthy to be kissed by none.

                        SIR ROBERT AYTOUN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I do not love thee for those soft
  Red coral lips I’ve kissed so oft;
  Nor teeth of pearl, the double guard
  To speech, whence music still is heard;
  Though from those lips a kiss being taken
  Might tyrants melt, and death awaken.

                                      CAREW.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I die, dear life! unless to me be given
    As many kisses as the spring hath flowers,
    Or there be silver-drops in Iris’ showers,
  Or stars there be in all-embracing heaven;
    And if displeased you of the match remain,
    You shall have leave to take them back again.

                         DRUMMOND OF HAWTHORNDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  You say I love not, ’cause I do not play
  Still with your ringlets, and kiss time away;
  By love’s religion, I must here confess it,
  The most I love when I the least express it!

                                      HERRICK.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Love in her sunny eyes does basking play;
    Love walks the pleasant mazes of her hair;
  Love does on both her lips forever stay,
    And sows and reaps a thousand kisses there.

                                        COWLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Her kisses faster, though unknown before,
  Than blossoms fall on parting spring, she strewed;
  Than blossoms sweeter, and in number more.

                                           DAVENANT.

       *       *       *       *       *

  So cheered he his fair spouse, and she was cheered,
  But silently a gentle tear let fall
  From either eye, and wiped them with her hair;
  Two other precious drops, that ready stood,
  Each in their crystal sluice, he, ere they fell,
  Kissed, as the gracious signs of sweet remorse
  And pious awe, that feared to have offended.

                                              MILTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We were alone, quite unsuspiciously,
    But oft our eyes met, and our cheeks in hue
  All o’er discolored by that reading were;
    But one point only wholly us o’erthrew:
  When we read the long-sighed-for smile of her,
    To be thus kissed by such devoted lover,
  He who from me[13] can be divided ne’er
    Kissed my mouth, trembling in the act all over.[14]

                                             DANTE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sweet pouting lip! whose color mocks the rose,
    Rich, ripe, and teeming with the dew of bliss,—
  The flower of Love’s forbidden fruit, which grows
    Insidiously to tempt us with a kiss.

                                              TASSO.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I felt the while a pleasing kind of smart;
  The kiss went tingling to my very heart.
  When it was gone, the sense of it did stay,
  The sweetness cling’d upon my lips all day,
  Like drops of honey loath to fall away.

                                      DRYDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Upon my livid lips bestow a kiss;
  Oh, envy not the dead, they feel not bliss.

                                      DRYDEN.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        Then with great haste
  I clasped my arms about her neck and waist;
  About her yielding waist, and took a fouth
  Of sweetest kisses frae her glowing mouth.
  While hard and fast I held her in my grips,
  My very saul came louping to my lips;
  Sair, sair she flet wi’ me ’tween ilka smack,
  But weel I kend she meant na as she spak.

                                  ALLAN RAMSAY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, were I made by some transforming power
  The captive bird that sings within thy bower!
  Then might my voice thy listening ears employ,
  And I those kisses he receives enjoy.

                                           POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore,
  Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore.

                                            POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Be plain in dress, and sober in your diet;
  In short, my deary, kiss me, and be quiet.

          LADY MONTAGUE: _Summary of Advice_.

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Never man before
  More blest; nor like this kiss hath been another,
  Nor ever beauties like, met at such closes,
  But in the kisses of two damask roses.

                                 BROWN: _Pastorals_.

       *       *       *       *       *

      At these sweet words, how shall I tell my joy?
  I called him to my side. He rose, approached,
  And trembling seized the hand I proffered him,
  A pledge of reconcilèd love; and, ah!
  So fervent kissed it, that my very heart
  Leaped in my bosom; then full many a sigh
  He breathed, with sweet regards and fond caress.

                                          GOLDONI.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The kiss snatched hasty from the sidelong maid,
  On purpose guardless, or pretending sleep.

                                THOMSON: _Winter_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The rose he in his bosom wore,
    How oft upon my breast was seen;
  And when I kissed the drooping flower,
    Behold, he cried, it blooms again!

                                 COWPER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Soft child of love, thou balmy bliss,
  Inform me, O delicious kiss!
  Why thou so suddenly art gone,
  Lost in the moment thou art won?

                                WOLCOT.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I ken’t her heart was a’ my ain;
    I loved her most sincerely;
  I kissed her owre and owre again,
    Amang the rigs o’ barley.

                             BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Her lips, more than the cherries bright,
    A richer dye has graced them;
  They charm th’ admiring gazer’s sight,
    And sweetly tempt to taste them.

                                    BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow,
    Sae bonnie blue her een, my dearie;
  Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou’;
    The mair I kiss she’s aye my dearie.

                                    BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I’ll pu’ the budding rose when Phœbus peeps in view,
  For it’s like a baumy kiss o’ her sweet bonnie mou’;
  The hyacinth for constancy, wi’ its unchanging blue—
    And a’ to be a posie to my ain dear May.

                                                BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A man may drink and not be drunk;
    A man may fight and not be slain;
  A man may kiss a bonnie lass
    And aye be welcome back again.

                               BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Her head upon my throbbing breast,
    She, sinking, said, “I’m thine forever!”
  While many a kiss the seal imprest
    The sacred vow we ne’er should sever.

                                     BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Gin a body meet a body
    Coming through the rye,
  Gin a body kiss a body,
    Need a body cry?

  Gin a body meet a body
    Coming through the glen,
  Gin a body kiss a body,
    Need the world ken?

                      BURNS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How delicious is the winning
  Of a kiss at Love’s beginning,
  When two mutual hearts are sighing
  For the knot there’s no untying!

                            CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  That’s hallowed ground—where, mourned and missed,
  The lips repose our love has kissed.
  ...
  A kiss can consecrate the ground
  Where mated hearts are mutual bound.

                                          CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The kiss that would make a maid’s cheek flush
    Wroth, as if kissing were a sin,
    Amid the Argus eyes and din
      And tell-tale glare of noon,
  Brings but a murmur and a blush,
      Beneath the modest moon.

                                       CAMPBELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A creature not too bright or good
  For human nature’s daily food;
  For transient sorrows, simple wiles,
  Praise, blame, love, kisses, tears, and smiles.

                                      WORDSWORTH.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ah, happy she! to ’scape from him whose kiss
    Had been pollution unto aught so chaste;
  Who soon had left her charms for vulgar bliss,
  And spoiled her goodly lands to gild his waste,
  Nor calm domestic peace had ever deigned to taste.

                                              BYRON.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How shall I bear the moment, when restored
  To that young heart where I alone am lord,
  When from those lips, unbreathed upon for years,
  I shall again kiss off the soul-felt tears,
  And find those tears warm as when last they started,
  Those sacred kisses pure as when we parted!

                                  MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        One dear glance,
  Like those of old, were heaven! whatever chance
  Hath brought thee here, oh, ’twas a blessed one!
  There—my loved lips—they move—that kiss hath run
  Like the first shoot of life through every vein,
  And now I clasp her, mine, all mine again.

                              MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Though high that tower, that rock-way rude,
    There’s one who, but to kiss thy cheek,
  Would climb the untrodden solitude
    Of Ararat’s tremendous peak,
  And think its steeps, though dark and dread,
  Heaven’s pathways, if to thee they led!

                          MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, think what the kiss and the smile must be worth,
    When the sigh and the tear are so perfect in bliss,
  And own, if there be an Elysium on earth,
    It is this, it is this.

                                   MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The bride kissed the goblet; the knight took it up,
  He quaffed off the wine, and he threw down the cup.
  She looked down to blush, and she looked up to sigh,
  With a smile on her lips, and a tear in her eye.

                                      SCOTT: _Marmion_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, lift me from the grass!
    I die, I faint, I fail!
  Let thy love in kisses rain
    On my lips and eyelids pale.

                        SHELLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Then press, with warm caresses,
  Close lips, and bridal kisses,
    Your steel;—cursed be his head,
    Who fails the bride he wed.

              KOERNER: _Sword Song_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Around the glowing hearth at night
    The harmless laugh and winter tale
  Go round, while parting friends delight
    To toast each other o’er their ale;
  The cotter oft with quiet zeal
    Will musing o’er his Bible lean;
  While in the dark the lovers steal
    To kiss and toy behind the screen.

                         CLARE: _December_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Then Rory, the rogue, stole his arm round her neck,
  So soft and so white, without freckle or speck,
  And he looked in her eyes that were beaming with light,
  And he kissed her sweet lips—don’t you think he was right?
  “Now, Rory, leave off, sir, you’ll hug me no more;
  That’s eight times to-day that you’ve kissed me before.”
  “Then here goes another,” says he, “to make sure,
  For there’s luck in odd numbers,” says Rory O’Moore.

                                                      LOVER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Grief with vain passionate tears hath wet
  The hair, shedding gleams from thy pale brow yet;
  Love with sad kisses unfelt hath prest
  Thy meek-dropt eyelids and quiet breast;
  And the glad Spring, calling out bird and bee,
  Shall color all blossoms, fair child, but thee.

                                       MRS. HEMANS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  She wiped the death-damps from his brow,
    With her pale hands and soft,
  Whose touch upon the lute-chords low
    Had stilled his heart so oft.
  She spread her mantle o’er his breast,
    She bathed his lips with dew,
  And on his cheeks such kisses pressed
    As hope and joy ne’er knew.

                              MRS. HEMANS.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Jenny kissed me when we met,
    Jumping from the chair she sat in;
  Time, you thief! who love to get
    Sweets into your list, put that in.
  Say I’m weary, say I’m sad,
    Say that health and wealth have missed me,
  Say I’m growing old, but add—
                  Jenny kissed me!

                                   LEIGH HUNT.

       *       *       *       *       *

      I classed and counted once
  Earth’s lamentable sounds,—the well-a-day,
      The jarring yea and nay,
  The fall of kisses upon senseless clay.

                              MRS. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

                          There were words
  That broke in utterance—melted in the fire;
  Embrace, that was convulsion; then a kiss,
  As long and silent as the ecstatic night,
  And deep, deep shuddering breaths, which meant beyond
  Whatever could be told by word or kiss.

                                          MRS. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

  First time he kissed me, but he only kissed
  The fingers of this hand wherewith I write;
  And, ever since, it grew more clear and white,
  Slow to world greeting; quick with its “Oh, list!”
  When the angels speak. A ring of amethyst,
  I could not wear it plainer to my sight
  Than that first kiss. The second passed in height
  The first, and sought the forehead; and half missed.
  Falling upon my hair. Oh, beyond meed!
  That was the chrism of love, which love’s own crown,
  With sanctifying sweetness, did precede.
  The third upon my lips was folded down
  In perfect purple state! Since when, indeed,
  I have been proud, and said, “My love, my own!”

                                        MRS. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

          He will kiss me on the mouth
  Then; and lead me as a lover
  Through the crowds that praise his deeds.

                             MRS. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Love feareth death! I was no child—I was betrothed that day;
  I wore a troth-kiss on my lips I could not give away.

                                                MRS. BROWNING.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Kiss, baby, kiss! mothers’ lips shine by kisses;
    Choke the warm breath that else would fall in blessings;
  Black manhood comes, when turbulent guilty blisses
    Tend thee the kiss that poisons ’mid caressings.

                                               CHARLES LAMB.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Both our mouths went wandering in one way,
    And, aching sorely, met among the leaves;
  Our hands, being left behind, strained far away.

                WM. MORRIS: _Defence of Guinevere_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I saw you kissing once: like a curved sword,
  That bites with all its edge, did your lips lie.

                WM. MORRIS: _Defence of Guinevere_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And with a velvet lip print on his brow
  Such language as the tongue hath never spoken.

                                 MRS. SIGOURNEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  There was a beam in that young mother’s eye, ’
    Lit by the feelings that she could not speak,
  As from her lips a plaintive lullaby
    Stirred the bright tresses on her infant’s cheek;
  While now and then, with melting heart, she prest
    Soft kisses o’er its red and smiling lips,—
  Lips sweet as rosebuds in fresh beauty dressed
    Ere the young murmuring bee their honey sips.

                                          MRS. WELBY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, turn from me those radiant eyes,
    With love’s dark lightning beaming,
  Or veil the power that in them lies
    To set the young heart dreaming.
  ...
  What pity that thy lips of rose,
    So fitted for heart-healing,
  Should not with tenderest kisses close
    The wounds thine eyes are dealing!

                              MOTHERWELL.

       *       *       *       *       *

  She tenderly kissed me,
    She fondly caressed,
  And then I fell gently
    To sleep on her breast—
  Deeply to sleep
    From the heaven of her breast.

                        E. A. POE.

       *       *       *       *       *

          Oh, stay, Madonna! stay;
          ’Tis not the dawn of day
  That marks the skies with yonder opal streak;
          The stars in silence shine;
          Then press thy lips to mine,
  And rest upon my neck thy fervid cheek.

                                      MACAULAY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A moment, and he saw her come,—
  That maiden, from her latticed home,
  With eyes all love, and lips apart,
  And faltering step, and beating heart,
  She came, and joined her cheek to his
  In one prolonged and rapturous kiss;
  And while it thrilled through heart and limb,
  The world was naught to her or him.

                                         PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh! Vidal’s very soul did weep
    Whene’er that music, like a charm,
  Brought back from their unlistening sleep
    The kissing lip and clasping arm.

                                      PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  How shall I woo her? I will bow
    Before the holy shrine,
  And pray the prayer, and vow the vow,
    And press her lips to mine;
  And I will tell her, when she parts
    From passion’s thrilling kiss,
  That memory to many hearts
    Is dearer far than bliss.

                                PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

          She loved the ripples’ play,
  As to her feet the truant rovers
    Wandered and went with a laugh away,
  Kissing but once, like wayward lovers.

                                  PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Deep is the bliss of the belted knight,
    When he kisses at dawn the silken glove,
  And goes, in his glittering armor dight,
    To shiver a lance for his Lady-Love!

                                      PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Dream, while the chill sea-foam
    In mockery dashes o’er thee,
  Of the cheerful hearth, and the quiet home,
    And the kiss of her that bore thee.

                                       PRAED.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I wept and blessed thee, called thee o’er and o’er
  By that dear name which I must use no more;
  And kissed with passionate lips the empty air,
  As if thy image stood before me there.

                       ANON.: _Josephine to Napoleon_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  My heart can kiss no heart but thine,
  And if these lips but rarely pine
    In the pale abstinence of sorrow,
  It is that nightly I divine,
  As I this world-sick soul recline,
    I shall be with thee ere the morrow.

                        BAILEY: _Festus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The smile, the sigh, the tear, and the embrace—
  All the delights of love at last in one,
  With kisses close as stars in the Milky Way.

                                 BAILEY: _Festus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Frown—toss about—let her lips be for a time:
  But steal a kiss at last like fire from heaven.

                                 BAILEY: _Festus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, weep not—wither not the soul
    Made saturate with bliss;
  I would not have one briny tear
    Embitter Beauty’s kiss.

                  BAILEY: _Festus_.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        Mother’s kiss
  Was ne’er more welcome to the waking child,
  After a dream of horrors, than the breeze
  Upon my feverish brow.

                                ANON.: _Saul_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Dear as remembered kisses after death,
  And sweet as those by hopeless fancy feigned
  On lips that are for others; deep as love,
  Deep as first love, and wild with all regret;
  O Death in Life! the days that are no more.

                           TENNYSON: _Princess_.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        The trance gave way
  To those caresses, when a hundred times
  In that last kiss, which never was the last,
  Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.

                        TENNYSON: _Love and Duty_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Many an evening by the waters did we watch the stately ships,
  And our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.

                                      TENNYSON: _Locksley Hall_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  When I was wont to meet her
  In the silent woody places
  By the home that gave me birth,
  We stood tranced in long embraces
  Mixed with kisses sweeter, sweeter
  Than anything on earth.

                     TENNYSON: _Maud_.

       *       *       *       *       *

              They found the stately horse,
  Who now, no more a vassal to the thief,
  But free to stretch his limbs in lawful flight,
  Neighed with all gladness as they came, and stooped
  With a low whinny toward the pair; and she
  Kissed the white star upon his noble front,
  Glad also: then Geraint upon the horse
  Mounted, and reached a hand, and on his foot
  She set her own and climbed; he turned his face
  And kissed her climbing, and she cast her arms
  About him, and at once they rode away.

                                      TENNYSON: _Enid_.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        Ah, one rose,
  One rose, but one, by those fair fingers culled,
  Were worth a hundred kisses pressed on lips
  Less exquisite than thine.

                   TENNYSON: _Gardener’s Daughter_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Then stood the maiden hushed in sweet surprise,
    And with her clasped hands held her heart-throbs down
  Beneath the wondrous brightness of his eyes,
    Whose smile seemed to enwreathe her like a crown.
  He raised no wand, he gave no strange commands,
    But touched her eyes with tender touch and light,
  With charmed lips kissed apart her folded hands,
    And laid therein the lily, snowy white.

                                   WILSON: _Magic Pitcher_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Ah, sad are they who know not love,
    But, far from passion’s tears and smiles,
  Drift down a moonless sea, beyond
    The silvery coasts of fairy isles.

  And sadder they whose longing lips
    Kiss empty air, and never touch
  The dear warm mouth of those they love—
    Waiting, wasting, suffering much.

                 ALDRICH: _Persian Love-Song_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Yes, child, I know I am out of tune;
    The light is bad; the sky is gray;
  I’ll work no more this afternoon,
    So lay your royal robes away.
  Besides, you’re dreamy—hand on chin—
    I know not what—not in the vein:
  While I would paint Anne Boleyn,
    You sit there looking like Elaine.

  Not like the youthful, radiant queen,
    Unconscious of the coming woe,
  But rather as she might have been,
    Preparing for the headsman’s blow.
  I see! I’ve put you in a miff—
    Sitting bolt upright, wrist on wrist.
  How _should_ you look? Why, dear, as if—
    Somehow—as if you’d just been kissed!

                  ALDRICH: _In an Atelier_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  We had talked long; and then a silence came;
      And in the topmost firs
  To his nest the white dove floated like a flame;
      And my lips closed on hers
      Who was the only She,
  And in one girl all womanhood to me.

                                         PALGRAVE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Fly, white-winged sea-bird, following fast,
    That dips around our foamy wake,
  Go nestle in her virgin breast,
    And kiss her pure lips for my sake.

                         _Sailor’s Valentine._

       *       *       *       *       *

  He who wandered with the peasant Jew,
    And broke with publicans the bread of shame,
    And drank with blessings in His Father’s name
  The water which Samaria’s outcast drew,
  Hath now His temples upon every shore,
    Altar and shrine and priest,—and incense dim
    Evermore rising, with low prayer and hymn,
  From lips which press the temple’s marble floor,
  Or kiss the gilded sign of the dread Cross He bore!

                                            WHITTIER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Lament who will the ribald line
    Which tells his lapse[15] from duty,
  How kissed the maddening lips of wine
    Or wanton ones of beauty;

  But think, while falls that shade between
    The erring one and Heaven,
  That he who loved like Magdalen
    Like her may be forgiven.

                                   WHITTIER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh to have dwelt in Bethlehem
    When the star of the Lord shone bright!
  To have sheltered the holy wanderers
    On that blessed Christmas night!
  To have kissed the tender wayworn feet
    Of the Mother undefiled,
  And, with reverent wonder and deep delight,
    To have tended the Holy Child!

                            ADELAIDE PROCTER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  “What more have I to give you?
    Why give you anything?
  You had my rose before, sir,
    And now you have my ring.”
  “You have forgotten one thing.”
    “I do not understand.”
  “The dew goes with the rose-bud,
    And with the ring the hand!”
  She gave her hand; he took it,
    And kissed it o’er and o’er:
  “I give myself to you, love;
    I cannot give you more!”

       STODDARD: _The Lady’s Gift_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And Halfred the Scald said, “This
  In the name of the Lord I kiss,
    Who on it was crucified!”
  And a shout went round the board,
  “In the name of Christ the Lord,
    Who died!”

                        LONGFELLOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

  They climb up into my turret
    O’er the arms and back of my chair:
  If I try to escape, they surround me;
    They seem to be everywhere.

  They almost devour me with kisses;
    Their arms about me entwine,
  Till I think of the Bishop of Bingen
    In his Mouse-Tower on the Rhine.

      LONGFELLOW: _The Children’s Hour_.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Men and devils both contrive
  Traps for catching girls alive;
  Eve was duped, and Helen kissed,—
  How, oh, how can you resist?

                           HOLMES.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Kiss but the crystal’s mystic rim,
    Each shadow rends its flowery chain,
  Springs in a bubble from its brim,
    And walks the chambers of the brain.

                                 HOLMES.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now, why thy long delaying?
  Alack! thy beads and praying!
  If thou, a saint, dost hope
  To kneel and kiss the Pope,
    Then I, a sinner, know
    Where sweeter kisses grow—
  Nay, now, just one before we go!

        TILTON: _Flight from the Convent_.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Before closing this portion of our selections, it is worth while to note
the popular misconception of the favorite ditty “Coming through the Rye,”
as shown in the pictorial illustrations which present a laddie and lassie
meeting and kissing in a field of grain. The lines,—

  “If a laddie meet a lassie
  Comin’ thro’ the rye,”

and especially the other couplet,—

  “A’ the lads they smile on me
  When comin’ thro’ the rye,”

seem to imply that traversing the rye was a habitual or common thing; but
what in the name of the Royal Agricultural Society could be the object in
trampling down a crop of grain in that style? The song, perhaps, suggests
a harvest-scene, where both sexes, as is the custom in Great Britain,
are at work reaping, and where they would come and go through the field
indeed, but not through the rye itself, so as to meet and kiss in it. The
truth is, the rye in this case is no more grain than Rye Beach is, it
being the name of a small shallow stream near Ayr, in Scotland, which,
having neither bridge nor ferry, was forded by the people going to and
from the market, custom allowing a lad to steal a kiss from any lass of
his acquaintance whom he met in mid-stream. Reference to the first verse,
in which the lass is shown as wetting her clothes in the stream, confirms
this explanation:

  “Jenny is a’ wat, puir bodie;
    Jenny’s seldom dry;
  She drag’lt a’ her petticoatie,
    Comin’ thro’ the rye.”]


EXTRACTS FROM THE OLD BALLADS.


MARRIAGE OF GILBERT BECKET.

  And quickly hied he down the stair;
    Of fifteen steps he made but three;
  He’s ta’en his bonny love in arms,
    And kist, and kist her tenderlie.


BIRTH OF ROBIN HOOD.

  He took his bonny boy in his arms,
    And kist him tenderlie;
  Says, “Though I would your father hang,
    Your mother’s dear to me.”

  He kist him o’er and o’er again:
    “My grandson I thee claim;
  And Robin Hood in gude greenwood,
    And that shall be your name.”


DOWSABELL.

  With that she bent her snow-white knee,
  Down by the shepheard kneeled she,
    And him she sweetely kist:
  With that the shepheard whooped for joy,
  Quoth he, “Ther’s never shepheard’s boy
    That ever was so blist.”


GILDEROY.

  Aft on the banks we’d sit us thair,
    And sweetly kiss and toy,
  Wi’ garlands gay wad deck my hair
    My handsome Gilderoy.


PATIENT COUNTESS.

  He took her in his armes, as yet
    So coyish to be kist,
  As mayds that know themselves beloved,
    And yieldingly resist.


FRIAR OF ORDERS GRAY.

  But first upon my true love’s grave
    My weary limbs I’ll lay,
  And thrice I’ll kiss the green-grass turf
    That wraps his breathless clay.


GENTLE HERDSMAN.

  When thus I saw he loved me well,
    I grewe so proud his paine to see,
  That I, who did not know myselfe,
    Thought scorne of such a youth as hee,

  And grewe soe coy and nice to please,
    As women’s lookes are often soe,
  He might not kisse, nor hand forsooth,
    Unlesse I willed him soe to doe.


FAIR ROSAMOND.

  And falling down all in a swoone
    Before King Henry’s face,
  Full oft he in his princelye armes
    Her bodye did embrace:

  And twentye times, with watery eyes,
    He kist her tender cheeke,
  Untill he had revivde againe
    Her senses milde and meeke.


LUNATIC LOVER.

  I’ll court you, and think you fair,
    Since love does distract my brain:
  I’ll go, I’ll wed the night-mare,
    And kiss her, and kiss her again.


CHILD WATERS.

  Shee saies, I had rather have one kisse,
    Child Waters, of thy mouth,
  Than I wolde have Cheshire and Lancashire both,
    That lye by north and south.


PHILLIDA AND CORYDON.

  Love, that had bene long deluded,
  Was with kisses sweete concluded;
  And Phillida with garlands gaye
  Was made the lady of the Maye.


FAIR MARGARET AND SWEET WILLIAM.

  I’ll do more for thee, Margaret,
    Than any of thy kin;
  For I will kiss thy pale wan lips,
    Though a smile I cannot win.

  With that bespake the seven brethren,
    Making most piteous moan:
  “You may go kiss your jolly brown bride,
    And let our sister alone.”

  “If I do kiss my jolly brown bride,
    I do but what is right;
  I ne’er made a vow to yonder poor corpse,
    By day, nor yet by night.”


SWEET WILLIAM’S GHOST.

  “Thy faith and troth thou’se nevir get,
    Of me shalt nevir win,
  Till that thou come within my bower
    And kiss my cheek and chin.”

  “If I should come within thy bower,
    I am no earthly man:
  And should I kiss thy rosy lipp,
    Thy days will not be lang.”


LADY’S FALL.

  “And there,” quoth hee, “Ile meete my deare,
    If God soe lend me life,
  On this day month without all fayle
    I will make thee my wife.”
  Then with a sweete and loving kisse,
    They parted presentlye,
  And att their partinge brinish teares
    Stoode in eche other’s eye.


WALY WALY, LOVE BE BONNY.

  But had I wist, before I kisst,
    That love had been sae ill to win,
  I had lockt my heart in a case of gowd,
    And pinned it wi’ a siller pin.


BRIDE’S BURIAL.

  In love as we have livde,
    In love let us depart;
  And I, in token of my love,
    Do kiss thee with my heart.


CHILDREN IN THE WOOD.

  With lippes as cold as any stone,
    They kist their children small:
  “God bless you both, my children deare;”
    With that the teares did fall.


LUCY AND COLIN.

  Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,
    Vows due to me alone:
  Nor thou, fond maid, receive his kiss,
    Nor think him all thy own.


MARRIAGE OF SIR GAWAINE.

  Sir Kay beheld that lady’s face,
    And looked upon her sweere:[16]
  “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes,
    “Of his kisse he stands in feare.”

  Sir Kay beheld that ladye againe,
    And looked upon her snout:
  “Whoever kisses that ladye,” he sayes,
    “Of his kisse he stands in doubt.”


GUY AND AMARANT.

  The good old man, even overjoyed with this,
    Fell on the ground, and wold have kissed Guy’s feete:
  “Father,” quoth he, “refraine soe base a kisse,
    For age to honor youth I hold unmeete.”


THE HUMORS OF VERSE.


ON MY REFUSING ANGELINA A KISS UNDER THE MISTLETOE.

  Nay, fond one, shun that mistletoe,
    Nor lure me ’neath its fatal bough:
  Some other night ’twere joy to go,
    But ah! I must not, dare not, now!
  ’Tis sad, I own, to see thy face
    Thus tempt me with its giggling glee,
  And feel I cannot now embrace
    The opportunity—and thee.

  ’Tis sad to think that jealousy’s
    Sharp scissors may our true love sever,
  And that my coldness now may freeze
    Thy warm affection, love, forever.
  But ah! to disappoint our bliss,
    A fatal hindrance now is stuck:
  ’Tis not that I am loath to kiss,
    But, dearest,—_I have dined on duck_.


MOCK HEROICS.

  Out from the dark, wild forest
    Rode the terrible Heinz Von Stein,
  And paused at the front of a tavern,
    And gazed at the swinging sign.

  Then he sat himself down in a corner,
    And growled for a bottle of wine;
  Up came—with a flask and a corkscrew—
    A maiden of beauty divine.

  Then he sighed, with a deep love sighing,
    And said, “O damsel mine,
  Suppose you just give a few kisses
    To the valorous Ritter Von Stein?”

  But she answered, “The kissing business
    Is not at all in my line;
  And surely I shall not begin it
    On a countenance ugly as thine.”

  Then the knight was exceedingly angry,
    And he cursed both coarse and fine;
  And he asked her what was the swindle
    For her sour and nasty wine.

  And fiercely he rode to his castle,
    And sat himself down to dine:
  And this is the fearful legend
    Of the terrible Heinz Von Stein.

       *       *       *       *       *

The closing stanza of the old English ballad called “The Rural Dance
about the May-pole” is as follows:

  “Let’s kiss,” says Jane; “Content,” says Nan,
  And so says every she;
  “How many?” says Batt; “Why, three,” says Matt,
  “For that’s a maiden’s fee.”
  But they, instead of three,
  Did give them half a score,
  And they in kindness gave ’em, gave ’em,
  Gave ’em as many more.

       *       *       *       *       *

There is a song of the reign of Queen Anne beginning:

  “Go from my window, go,
  Or something at you I may throw:”

to which a lover replies,—

  “Throw me or blow me a kiss,
  And nothing can then come amiss.”

       *       *       *       *       *

From the old Scotch ballad, “The Souter and his Sow,” we take the
following stanza:

  The souter gae his sow a kiss.
  “Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “it’s for my birse;”
  “And wha gae ye sae sweet a mou’?”
  Quo’ the souter to the sow.
  “Grumph” (quo’ the sow) “and wha gae ye
  A tongue sae sleekit and sae slee?”

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of our readers will remember the humorous old Scotch song in which
these verses occur:

  “Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye go a-shearing?”
  “Speak a little louder, sir, I’m unco dull o’ hearing.”
  “Auld wifie, auld wifie, will ye let me kiss ye?”
  “I hear a little better, sir, may a’ the warld bless ye.”

In Cheshire and Staffordshire the lines run thus:

  “Old woman, old woman, may I come and kiss you?”
  “Yes, and thank you kindly, sir, and may Heaven bless you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Many will recognize these old verses:

  Some say that kissing’s a sin,
    But I think it’s nane ava;
  For kissing has wonn’d in this warld
    Since ever there was twa.

  Oh, if it wasna lawfu’,
    Lawyers wadna allow it;
  If it wasna holy,
    Ministers wadna do it.

  If it wasna modest,
    Maidens wadna tak it;
  If it wasna plenty,
    Puir folks wadna get it.


KING KEDER.

The only account of this apocryphal monarch is a poetic myth relating to
an amorous design, from the frustration of which was named the town of
Kidderminster:

  King Keder saw a pretty girl,
  King Keder would have kissed her,
  The damsel nimbly slipped aside,
      and so
  King Keder missed her,
          Keder missed her.

       *       *       *       *       *

Shakspeare, in his “Venus and Adonis,” gives this picture of tantalizing
caprice:

  Upon this promise did he raise his chin,
    Like a dive dapper peering through a wave,
  Who, being looked on, ducks as quickly in;
    So offers he to give what she did crave;
  But when her lips were ready for his pay,
  He winks, and turns his lips another way.

       *       *       *       *       *

As a specimen of what the human mind can effect in the way of amatory
poetry, we take the following from a journal of the period:

  When Carlo sits in Sally’s chair,
  Oh, don’t I wish that I were there!
  When her fairy fingers pat his head,
  Oh, don’t I wish ’twas me instead!
  When Sally’s arms his neck imprison,
  Oh, don’t I wish my neck was his’n!
  When Sally kisses Carlo’s nose,
  Oh, don’t I wish that I were those!


THE PUBLICAN’S DAUGHTER.

In George Colman’s musical farce, “The Review, or the Wags of Windsor,”
Looney Mactwolter falls in love with Judy O’Flannikin:

  Judy’s a darling; my kisses she suffers:
      She’s an heiress, that’s clear,
      For her father sells beer;
  He keeps the sign of the Cow and the Snuffers.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Hood’s “Retrospective Review,” “Oh, when I was a tiny boy,” etc.,
occurs this stanza:

  Oh for the lessons learned by heart!
  Ay, though the very birch’s smart
    Should mark those hours again;
  I’d “kiss the rod,” and be resigned
  Beneath the strokes, and even find
    Some sugar in the cane!

       *       *       *       *       *

In Robert Southey’s “Love Elegies,” the poet relates how he obtained
Delia’s pocket-handkerchief, and shows that “the eighth commandment was
not made for love,” when he proceeds as follows:

  Here, when she took the macaroons from me,
    She wiped her mouth to clean the crumbs so sweet!
  Dear napkin! yes, she wiped her lips in thee,—
    Lips sweeter than the macaroons she eat.

  And when she took that pinch of Maccabaw
    That made my love so delicately sneeze,
  Thee to her Roman nose applied I saw;
    And thou art doubly dear for things like these.

  No washerwoman’s filthy hand shall e’er,
    Sweet pocket-handkerchief! thy worth profane;
  For thou hast touched the rubies of my fair,
    And I will kiss thee o’er and o’er again.

       *       *       *       *       *

Scotch song abounds with pleasant allusions to the custom of kissing,
like this, for example, from a well-known West Highland ditty:

  Dumbarton’s drums beat bonnie, O,
  When they mind me o’ my dear Johnny, O;
        How happy am I,
        When my soldier is by,
  When he kisses and blesses his Annie, O!
  ’Tis a soldier alone can delight me, O,[17]
  For his graceful looks do invite me, O;
        Whilst guarded in his arms,
        I’ll fear no war’s alarms,
  Neither danger nor death shall e’er fright me, O.


ROBIN GOODFELLOW.

  When lads and lasses merry be,
    With possets and with junkets fine,
  Unseen of all the company
    I eat their cakes and sip their wine,
    And, to make sport,
    I whoop and snort,
  And out the candles I do blow:
    The maids I kiss:
    They shriek, “Who’s this?”
  I answer nought but ho, ho, ho![18]


NOSES.

  How very odd that poets should suppose
  There is no poetry about a nose,
  When plain as is man’s nose upon his face,
  A nose-less face would lack poetic grace!
  Noses have sympathy, a lover knows:
  Noses are always touched, when lips are kissing;
  And who would care to kiss, if nose were missing?


“BEWARE OF PAINT.”

  A lover sat down with his love by his side,
  With a countenance joyous, and beaming with pride.
  As he gazed on the blending of beauty and art,
  A thrill of delight filled his innermost heart;
  And, revelling there in his visions of bliss,
  He thought to obtain from the fair one a kiss.
  But ere he had gained the much-coveted prize,
  The scales of love’s blindness dropped off of his eyes;
  For he marked the fixed hue of the maidenly blush,
  And detected the carmine that passed for a flush
  Of the life-giving tide, with its ebb and its flow,
  Like a lake in the sunset with reddening glow.
  “Faugh!” thought he,—“is’t only a semblance, fair saint,
  Of beauty and youth,—only powder and paint?
  Have I been deceived by the likeness of truth,
  By counterfeit bloom and by parodied youth?
  Ah, that beautiful brow I was wont to declare
  Did vie with the lily, so white and so fair,
  I find to my sorrow, and e’en to love’s blight,
  Owes its blanch to enamel or pure lily-white!
  No, no, I decline! I relinquish the bliss
  I had hoped to derive from a rapturous kiss,
  Lest the mark of the brush I might haply erase,
  And leave a significant print on her face;
  Nor more will I fondly encircle her neck,
  Lest the counterfeit fairness my sleeve may bedeck,
  And I care not to bear on demonstrative arms
  Such manifest mark of decadence of charms.”

                                             W. M. PEGRAM.


THE SHADOWS.

          In the twilight gloom
  The family sat in the sitting-room,
      Chatting the hour away
              Before tea,
  While Kate and I were watching the gray
      Of evening descend o’er the sea,
      As in a bow-window stood we.

          We talked of times
  That touched our hearts as the evening’s chimes;
      Holding her hand in mine,—
            Happy me!
  And as we looked at the stars that shine,
      I kissed her, and she kissed me,
      As in a bow-window stood we.
          Then oped the door,
  And the light of a lamp fell on the floor;
      While a maid did call
            Them to tea.
  And, as they turned, this sight saw all,—
      Shadows were kissing on the wall,
      As in a bow-window kissed we.


THE SMACK IN SCHOOL.

  A district school, not far away,
  ’Mid Berkshire hills and winter’s day,
  Was humming with its wonted noise
  Of threescore mingled girls and boys,
  Some few upon their tasks intent,
  But more on furtive mischief bent.
  The while the master’s downward look
  Was fastened on a copy-book,
  Rose sharp and clear a rousing smack,
  As ’twere a battery of bliss
  Let off in one tremendous kiss!
  “What’s that?” the startled master cries.
  “That, thir,” a little imp replies,
  “Wath William Willuth, if you pleathe,—
  I thaw him kith Thuthannah Peathe!”
  With frown to make a statue thrill,
  The master thundered, “Hither, Will!”
  Like wretch o’ertaken in his track,
  With stolen chattels on his back,
  Will hung his head in fear and shame,
  And to the awful presence came,—
  A great, green, bashful simpleton,
  The butt of all good-natured fun.
  With smile suppressed, and birch upraised,
  The threatener faltered, “I’m amazed
  That you, my biggest pupil, should
  Be guilty of an act so rude!
  Before the whole set school, to boot.
  What evil genius put you to’t?”
  “’Twas she herself, sir,” sobbed the lad;
  “I didn’t mean to be so bad;
  But when Susannah shook her curls,
  And whispered I was ’fraid of girls,
  And dursn’t kiss a baby’s doll,
  I couldn’t stand it, sir, at all,
  But up and kissed her on the spot.
  I know—boo-hoo—I ought to not,
  But somehow, from her looks—boo-hoo—
  I thought she kind o’ wished me to!”


THE BALLAD OF THE OYSTERMAN.

  Then up arose the oysterman, and to himself said he,
  I guess I’ll leave the skiff at home, for fear that folks should see;
  I read it in the story-book, that, for to kiss his dear,
  Leander swam the Hellespont,—and I will swim this here.

  And he has leaped into the waves, and crossed the shining stream,
  And he has clambered up the bank, all in the moonlight gleam;
  Oh, there were kisses sweet as dew, and words as soft as rain,
  But they have heard her father’s step, and in he leaps again.

(The lover is seized with the cramp and is drowned, and the maiden never
awakens from her “swound.”)

  Fate has metamorphosed them, in pity of their woe,
  And now they keep an oyster-shop for mermaids down below.

                                                    HOLMES.


ANCIENT SPANISH LYRIC.

  Since for kissing thee, Minquillo,
    My mother scolds me all the day,
  Let me have it quickly, darling,
    Give me back my kiss, I pray.

  If we have done aught amiss,
    Let’s undo it while we may;
  Quickly give me back my kiss,
    That she may have naught to say.

  Do,—she makes so great a bother,
    Chides so sharply, looks so grave,—
  Do, my love, to please my mother,
    Give me back the kiss I gave.

  Out upon you, false Minquillo!
    One you give, but two you take;
  Give me back the one, my darling,
    Give it for my mother’s sake.


THE BROKEN PITCHER.

[From the Spanish.]

  It was a Moorish maiden was sitting by a well,
  And what the maiden thought of, I cannot, cannot tell,
  When by there rode a valiant knight for the town of Oviedo,
  Alfonzo Guzman was the knight, the Count of Desparedo.

  “O maiden, Moorish maiden, why sitt’st thou by the spring?
  Say, dost thou seek a lover, or any other thing?
  Why gazest thou upon me with eyes so large and wide,
  And wherefore doth the pitcher lie broken by thy side?”

  “I do not seek a lover, thou Christian knight so gay,
  Because an article like that hath never come my way;
  And why I gaze upon you I cannot, cannot tell,
  Except that in your iron hose you look uncommon well.

  “My pitcher it is broken, and this the reason is:
  A shepherd came behind me and tried to steal a kiss;
  I would not stand his nonsense, so ne’er a word I spoke,
  But scored him on the costard, and so the jug was broke.

  “My uncle the Alcayde, he waits for me at home,
  And will not take his tumbler until Zorayda come.
  I cannot bring him water, the pitcher is in pieces,
  And so I’m sure to catch it, ’cos he wollops all his nieces.”

  “O maiden, Moorish maiden, wilt thou be ruled by me?
  So wipe thine eyes and rosy lips, and give me kisses three,
  And I’ll give thee my helmet, thou kind and courteous lady,
  To carry home the water to thy uncle the Alcayde.”

  He lighted down from off his steed—he tied him to a tree—
  He bowed him to the maiden, and took his kisses three:
  “To wrong thee, sweet Zorayda, I swear would be a sin!”
  He knelt him at the fountain, and dipped his helmet in.

  Up rose the Moorish maiden,—behind the knight she steals,
  And caught Alfonzo Guzman up tightly by the heels,
  She tipped him in, and held him down, beneath the bubbling water,
  “Now, take thou that for venturing to kiss Al Hamet’s daughter!”

  A Christian maid is weeping in the town of Oviedo,
  She waits the coming of her love, the Count of Desparedo.
  I pray you all, in charity, that you will never tell
  How he met the Moorish maiden beside the lonely well.


THE “BASIA” OF JOHANNES SECUNDUS.

The true name of the Dutch poet Johannes Secundus was Johannes Everard.
He was born at the Hague in 1511, and died at Utrecht in 1536. His
“Opera Poetica” consist of elegies, odes, epigrams, and other poems,
written in purely classical Latin. Of these productions, the “Basia,” or
“Kisses” (Utrecht, 1539), have been most admired, and have been ranked
with the lyrics of Catullus. They have been repeatedly translated into
the principal European languages, the English versions being by Nott and
Stanley. We offer selections from the latter, for such of our readers as
are unfamiliar with the rapturous Dutchman’s florid effusions.

The introductory epigram is as follows:

  Lycinna scorns my KISSES; they are chaste,
  Not stout enough for her experienced taste;
  And Ælia calls me “bard with languid strings,”
  She that to Love in streets her offerings brings.
  Perhaps my utmost strength they seek to know,
  To prove my vigor!—Go! vile wantons, go!
  My strength, my vigor, long despair to find;
  For you these KISSES never were designed;
  Never for you were these soft measures wrought:
  Read me, ye tender brides of boys untaught;
  Read me, of brides untaught ye tender boys,
  Yet new to Venus’ sweetly varying joys!


KISS I.

THE ORIGIN OF KISSES.

  When young Ascanius, by the Queen of Love,
  Was wafted to Cythera’s lofty grove,
  The slumbering boy upon a couch she laid,
  A fragrant couch, of new-blown violets made,
  The blissful bower with shadowing roses crowned,
  And balmy-breathing airs diffused around.

  Soon, as she watched, through all her glowing soul
  Impassioned thoughts of lost Adonis stole.
  How oft, as memory hallowed all his charms,
  She longed to clasp the sleeper in her arms!
  How oft she said, admiring every grace,
  “Such was Adonis! such his lovely face!”

  But, fearing lest this fond excess of joy
  Might break the slumber of the beauteous boy,
  On every rose-bud that around him blowed,
  A thousand nectared kisses she bestowed;
  And straight each opening bud, which late was white,
  Blushed a warm crimson to the astonished sight.
  Still in Dione’s breast soft wishes rise,
  Soft wishes, vented with soft-whispered sighs.
  Thus, by her lips unnumbered roses pressed,
  Kisses, unfolding in sweet bloom, confessed;
  And, flushed with rapture at each new-born kiss,
  She felt her swelling soul o’erwhelmed in bliss.

  Now round this orb, soft-floating on the air,
  The beauteous goddess speeds her radiant car;
  As in gay pomp the harnessed cygnets fly,
  Their snow-white pinions glitter through the sky:
  And like Triptolemus, whose bounteous hand
  Strewed golden plenty o’er the fertile land,
  Fair Cytherea, as she flew along,
  O’er the vast lap of nature kisses flung;
  Pleased from on high she viewed the enchanted ground,
  And from her lips thrice fell a magic sound:
  He gave to mortals corn on every plain,
  But she those sweets which mitigate my pain.

  Hail, then, ye kisses! that can best assuage
  The pangs of love, and soften all its rage!
  Ye balmy kisses! that from roses sprung;
  Roses! on which the lips of Venus hung:
  Your bard am I; while yet the Aonian shades
  Boast their proud verdures and their flowery glades,
  While yet a laurel guards the sacred spring,
  My fond, impassioned muse of you shall sing;
  And Love, enraptured with the Latin name,
  With that dear race from which your lineage came,
  In Latin strains shall celebrate your praise,
  And tell your high descent to future days.


KISS II.

  As round some neighboring elm the vine
  Its amorous tendrils loves to twine;
  As round the oak, in many a maze,
  The ivy flings its gadding sprays;
  Couldst thou, Neæra, thus enlace
  My neck with clinging close embrace;
  If thine with such tenacious hold
  My arms, Neæra, could enfold,
  And nought could those sweet bonds dissever,
  But we cling on and kiss forever;
  Then, Ceres, Bacchus, sleep, adieu!
  Good friends, I’d ask no more of you.
  Oh, not for these, my love, oh, no,
  Would I thy vermil lips forego;
  But, lost in kisses never ending,
  Our lives in mutual bliss expending,
  One bark should waft our spirits o’er,
  United, to the Stygian shore:
  Then, passing through a transient night,
  We’d enter soon those fields of light,
  Where, breathing richest odors round,
  A spring eternal paints the ground;
  Where heroes, once in valor proved,
  And beauteous heroines, once beloved,
  Again with mutual passion burn,
  Feel all their wonted flames return,
  And now in sportive measures tread
  The flowery carpet of the mead,
  Now sing the jocund, tuneful tale,
  Alternate in the myrtle vale,
  Where ceaseless zephyrs fan the glade,
  Soft-murmuring through the laurel shade;
  Beneath whose waving foliage grow
  The violet sweet of purple glow,
  The daffodil that breathes perfume,
  And roses of immortal bloom:
  Where Earth her gifts spontaneous yields,
  Nor ploughshare cuts the unfurrowed fields.

  Soon as we entered these abodes
  Of happy souls, of demi-gods,
  The blest would all respectful rise,
  And view us with admiring eyes;
  Would seat us ’mid the immortal throng,
  Where I, renowned for tender song,
  A poet’s and a lover’s praise,
  At once should claim and gain the bays;
  While thou, enthroned above the rest,
  Shouldst shine in Beauty’s train confest:
  Nor should the mistresses of Jove
  Such partial honors disapprove;
  E’en Helen, though of race divine,
  Would to thy charms her rank resign.


KISS III.

  “One little kiss, sweet maid!” I cry,
    And round my neck your arms you twine!
  Your luscious lips of crimson dye
    With rapturous haste encounter mine.

  But quick those lips my lips forsake,
    With wanton, tantalizing jest;
  So starts some rustic from the snake
    Beneath his heedless footstep prest.

  Is this to grant the wished-for kiss?
    Ah! no, my love,—’tis but to fire
  The bosom with a transient bliss,
    Inflaming unallayed desire.


KISS IV.

  ’Tis not a kiss you give, my love!
  ’Tis richest nectar from above!
  A fragrant shower of balmy dews,
  Which thy sweet lips alone diffuse!
  ’Tis every aromatic breeze,
  That wafts from Afric’s spicy trees;
  ’Tis honey from the osier hive,
  Which chymist bees with care derive
  From all the newly-opened flowers
  That bloom in Cecrops’ roseate bowers,
  Or from the breathing sweets that grow
  On famed Hymettus’ thymy brow:
  But if such kisses you bestow,
  If from your lips such raptures flow,
  Thus blest, supremely blest by thee,
  Ere long I must immortal be;
  Must taste on earth those joys that wait
  The banquets of celestial state.
  Then cease thy bounty, dearest fair!
  Such precious gifts then spare! oh, spare!
  Or, if I must immortal prove,
  Be thou immortal too, my love!
  For, should the heavenly powers request
  My presence at the ambrosial feast,
  Nay, should they Jove himself dethrone,
  And yield to me his radiant crown,
  I’d scorn it all, nor would I deign
  O’er golden realms of bliss to reign,
  Jove’s radiant crown I’d scorn to wear,
  Unless thou might’st such honors share;
  Unless thou too, with equal sway,
  Might’st rule with me the realms of day.


KISS V.

  While tenderly around me cast
  Your arms, Neæra, hold me fast,
  And hanging o’er, to view confest
  Your neck and gently-heaving breast,
  Down on my shoulders soft decline
  Your beauties more than half divine,
  With wandering looks that o’er me rove,
  And fire the melting soul with love:

  While you, Neæra, fondly join
  Your little pouting lips with mine,
  And frolic bite your amorous swain,
  Complaining soft if bit again,
  And sweetly murmuring pour along
  The trembling accents of your tongue,
  Your tongue, now here, now there that strays,
  Now here, now there delighted plays,
  That now my humid kisses sips,
  Now wanton darts between my lips;
  And on my bosom raptured lie,
  Venting the gently-whispered sigh,
  A sigh that kindles warm desires,
  And kindly fans life’s drooping fires;
  Soft as the zephyr’s breezy wing,
  And balmy as the breath of spring:

  While you, sweet nymph! with amorous play,
  In kisses suck my breath away;
  My breath with wasting warmth replete,
  Parched by my breast’s contagious heat;
  Till, breathing soft, you pour again
  Returning life through every vein;
  Thus soothe to rest my passion’s rage,
  Love’s burning fever thus assuage:
  Sweet nymph! whose breath can best allay
  Those fires that on my bosom prey,
  Breath welcome as the cooling gale
  That blows when scorching heats prevail:

  Then, more than blest, I fondly swear,
  “No power can with Love’s power compare!
  None in the starry court of Jove
  Is greater than the god of Love!
  If any can yet greater be,
  Yes, my Neæra! yes, ’tis thee!”


KISS VI.

  Two thousand kisses of the sweetest kind,
  ’Twas once agreed, our mutual love should bind;
  First from my lips a rapturous thousand flowed,
  Then you a thousand in your turn bestowed;
  The promised numbers were fulfilled, I own,
  But love sufficed with numbers ne’er was known!
  Who thinks of counting every separate blade
  Upon the meadow’s verdant robe inlaid?
  Who prays for numbered ears of ripening grain,
  When lavish Ceres yellows o’er the plain?
  Or to a scanty hundred would confine
  The clustering grapes, when Bacchus loads the vine?
  Who asks the guardian of the honeyed store
  To grant a thousand bees, and grant no more?
  Or tells the drops, while o’er some thirsty field
  The liquid stores are from above distilled?
  When Jove with fury hurls the moulded hail,
  And earth and sea destructive storms assail,
  Or when he bids, from his tempestuous sky,
  The winds unchained with wasting horror fly,
  The god ne’er heeds what harvests he may spoil,
  Nor yet regards each desolated soil:
  So, when its blessings bounteous heaven ordains,
  It ne’er with sparing hand the good restrains;
  Evils in like abundance too it showers;
  Well suits profusion with immortal powers!
  Then, since such gifts with heavenly minds agree,
  Shed, goddess-like, your blandishments on me;
  And say, Neæra! for that form divine
  Speaks thee descended of ethereal line,—
  Say, goddess! than that goddess lovelier far
  Who roams o’er ocean in her pearly car,—
  Your kisses, boons celestial, why withhold,
  Or why by scanty numbers are they told?
  Still you ne’er count, hard-hearted maid, those sighs
  Which in my laboring breast incessant rise;
  Nor yet those lucid drops of tender woe
  Which down my cheeks in quick succession flow.
  Yes, dearest life! your kisses number all;
  And number, too, my sorrowing tears that fall:
  Or, if you count not all the tears, my fair,
  To count the kisses sure you must forbear.
  But let your lips now soothe a lover’s pain,
  (Yet griefs like mine what soothings shall restrain!)
  If tears unnumbered pity can regard,
  Unnumbered kisses must each tear reward.


KISS VII.

  Kisses told by hundreds o’er,
  Thousands told by thousands more,
  Millions, countless millions, then,
  Told by millions o’er again,
  Countless as the drops that glide
  In the ocean’s billowy tide,
  Countless as yon orbs of light
  Spangled o’er the vault of light,
  I’ll with ceaseless love bestow
  On those cheeks of crimson glow,
  On those lips so gently swelling,
  On those eyes such fond tales telling.

  But when circled in thy arms,
  As I’m panting o’er thy charms,
  O’er thy cheeks of rosy bloom,
  O’er thy lips that breathe perfume,
  O’er thine eyes so sweetly bright,
  Shedding soft expressive light,—
  Then, nor cheeks of rosy bloom,
  Nor thy lips that breathe perfume,
  Nor thine eyes’ expressive light,
  Bless thy lover’s envious sight;
  Nor that soothing smile, which cheers
  All his tender hopes and fears:
  For, as radiant Phœbus streams
  O’er the globe with placid beams,
  Whirling through the ethereal way
  The fiery-axled car of day,
  And from the tempestuous sky
  While the rapid coursers fly,
  All the stormy clouds are driven
  Which deformed the face of heaven
  So thy golden smile, my fair,
  Chases every amorous care;
  Dries the torrents of mine eyes;
  Calms my fond, tumultuous sighs.
  Oh! how emulous the strife
  ’Twixt my lips and eyes, sweet life!
  Of thy charms are these possest,
  Those are envious till they’re blest:
  Think not, then, that in my love
  I’ll be rivalled e’en by Jove,
  When such jealous conflicts rise
  ’Twixt my very lips and eyes.


KISS VIII.

  Ah! what ungoverned rage, declare,
  Neæra, too capricious fair,
  What unrevenged, unguarded wrong,
  Could urge thee thus to wound my tongue?

  Perhaps you deem the afflictive pains
  Too trifling, which my heart sustains,
  Nor think enough my bosom smarts
  With all the sure, destructive darts
  Incessant sped from every charm,
  That thus your wanton teeth must harm,
  Must harm that little tuneful thing,
  Which wont so oft thy praise to sing,
  What time the morn has streaked the skies,
  Or evening’s faded radiance dies,
  Through painful days consuming slow,
  Through lingering nights of amorous woe.

  This tongue, thou know’st, has oft extolled
  Thy hair in shining ringlets rolled;
  Thine eyes with tender passion bright;
  Thy swelling breast of purest white;
  Thy taper neck of polished grace;
  And all the beauties of thy face;
  Beyond the lucid orbs above,
  Beyond the starry throne of Jove;
  Extolled them in such lofty lays
  That gods with envy heard the praise.

  Oft has it called thee every name
  Which boundless rapture taught to frame;
  My life! my joy! my soul’s desire!
  All that my wish could e’er require!
  My pretty Venus! and my love!
  My gentle turtle! and my dove!
  Till Cypria’s self with envy heard
  Each partial, each endearing word.

  Say, beauteous tyrant! dost delight
  To wound this tongue in wanton spite?
  Because, alas! too well aware
  That every wrong it yet could bear
  Ne’er urged it once in angry strain
  Of thy unkindness to complain;
  But, suffering patient all its harms,
  Still would it sing thy matchless charms,
  Sing the soft lustre of thine eye,
  Sing thy sweet lips of rosy dye,
  Nay, still those guilty teeth ’twould sing,
  Whence all its cruel mischiefs spring:
  E’en now it lisps in faltering lays,
  While yet it bleeds, Neæra’s praise:
  Thus, beauteous tyrant! you control,
  Thus sway my fond, enamored soul!


KISS IX.

  Cease thy sweet, thy balmy kisses;
    Cease thy many-wreathèd smiles;
  Cease thy melting, murmuring blisses;
    Cease thy fond, bewitching wiles:

  On my bosom soft reclined,
    Cease to pour thy tender joys;
  Pleasure’s limits are confined,
    Pleasure oft repeated cloys.

  Sparingly your bounty use;
    When I ask for kisses nine,
  Seven at least you must refuse,
    And let only two be mine;

  Yet let these be neither long,
    Nor delicious sweets respire,
  But like those which virgins young
    Artless give their aged sire:

  Such as, with a sister’s love,
    Beauteous Dian may bestow
  On the radiant son of Jove,
    Phœbus of the silver bow.

  Tripping light with wanton grace,
    Now my lips disordered fly,
  And in some retired place
    Hide thee from my searching eye.

  Each recess I’ll traverse o’er
    Where I think thou liest concealed;
  Every covert I’ll explore,
    Till my wanton’s all revealed:

  Then, in sportive, amorous play,
    Victor-like I’ll seize my love;
  Seize thee as the bird of prey
    Pounces on a trembling dove.

  Captive then, and sore dismayed,
    How you’ll fondle, how you’ll plead,
  Vainly offering, silly maid,
    Seven sweet kisses to be freed!

  Not so fast, fair runaway!
    Kisses seven times seven be mine!
  Chained within these arms you stay
    Till I touch the balmy fine.

  Paying then the forfeit due,
    By your much-loved beauties swear,
  Faults like these you’ll still pursue,
    Faults which kisses can repair.


KISS X.

  In various kisses various charms I find,
  For changeful fancy loves each changeful kind:
  Whene’er with mine thy humid lips unite,
  Then humid kisses with their sweets delight;
  From ardent lips so ardent kisses please,
  For glowing transports often spring from these.
  What joy! to kiss those eyes that wanton rove,
  Then catch the glances of returning love;
  Or clinging to the cheek of crimson glow,
  The bosom, shoulder, or the neck of snow;
  What pleasure! tender passion to assuage,
  And see the traces of our amorous rage
  On the soft neck or blooming cheek exprest,
  On the white shoulder, or still whiter breast!
  ’Twixt yielding lips, in every thrilling kiss,
  To dart the trembling tongue,—what matchless bliss!
  Inhaling sweet each other’s mingling breath,
  While Love lies gasping in the arms of Death!
  While soul with soul in ecstasy unites,
  Entranced, impassioned, with the fond delights
  From thee received, or given to thee, my love!
  Alike to me those kisses grateful prove;
  The kiss that’s rapid, or prolonged with art,
  The fierce, the gentle, equal joys impart:
  But mark! be all my kisses, beauteous maid,
  With different kisses from thy lips repaid;
  Then varying rapture shall from either flow,
  As varying kisses either shall bestow:
  And let the first who with an unchanged kiss
  Shall cease to thus diversify the bliss,
  Observe, with looks in meek submission dressed,
  That law by which this forfeiture’s expressed:
  “As many kisses as each lover gave,
  As each might in return again receive,
  So many kisses from the vanquished side
  The victor claims, so many ways applied.”


KISS XI.

  Some think my kisses too luxurious told,
  Kisses, they say, not known to sires of old:
  But, while entranced on thy soft neck I lie,
  And o’er thy lips in tender transport die,
  Shall I then ask, dear life, perplexed in vain,
  Why rigid cynics censure thus my strain?
  Ah, no! thy blandishments so rapturous prove
  That every ravished sense is lost in love:
  Blest with those blandishments, divine I seem,
  And all Elysium paints the blissful dream.
  Neæra heard,—then, smiling, instant threw
  Around my neck her arm of fairest hue,
  And kissed me fonder, more voluptuous far,
  Than Beauty’s queen e’er kissed the god of War:
  “What (cries the nymph)! and shall my amorous bard
  Pedantic wisdom’s stern decree regard?
  Thy cause must be at my tribunal tried:
  None but Neæra can the point decide.”


KISS XII.

  Modest matrons, maidens, say,
  Why thus turn your looks away?
  Frolic feats of lawless love,
  Of the lustful powers above,
  Forms obscene that shock the sight,
  In my verse I ne’er recite,—
  Verse where naught indecent reigns;
  Guiltless are my tender strains,
  Such as pedagogues austere
  Might with strict decorum hear,
  Might, with no licentious speech,
  To their youth reproachless teach.
  I, chaste votary of the Nine,
  Kisses sing of chaste design.
  Maids and matrons yet, with rage,
  Frown upon my blameless page,—
  Frown, because some wanton word
  Here and there by chance occurred,
  Or the cheated fancy caught
  Some obscure though harmless thought.
  Hence, ye prudish matrons! hence,
  Squeamish maids devoid of sense!
  And shall these in virtue dare
  With my virtuous maid compare,—
  She who in the bard will prize
  What she’ll in his lays despise?
  Wantonness with love agrees,
  But reserve in verse must please.


KISS XIII.

  With amorous strife exanimate I lay;
    Around your neck my languid arm I threw;
  My trembling heart had just forgot to play,
    Its vital spirit from my bosom flew;—

  The Stygian lake, the dreary realms below,
    To which the sun a cheering beam denies,
  Old Charon’s boat, slow-wandering to and fro,
    Promiscuous passed before my swimming eyes,—

  When you, Neæra! with your humid breath
    O’er my parched lips the deep-fetched kiss bestowed
  Sudden my fleeting soul returned from death,
    And freightless hence the infernal pilot rowed.

  Yet soft,—for, oh, my erring senses stray;—
    Not quite unfreighted to the Stygian shore
  Old Charon steered his lurid bark away:
    My plaintive shade he to the Manes bore.

  Then, since my soul can here no more remain,
    A part of thine, sweet life, that loss supplies!
  But what this feeble fabric must sustain,
    If of thy soul that part its aid denies!

  And much I fear; for, struggling to be free,
    Oft from its new abode it fain would roam;
  Oft seeks, impatient to return to thee,
    Some secret pass to gain its native home.

  Unless thy fostering breath retards its flight,
    It now prepares to quit this falling frame:
  Haste, then; to mine thy clinging lips unite,
    And let one spirit feed each vital flame,

  Till, after frequent ecstasies of bliss,
    Mutual, unsating to the impassioned heart,
  From bodies thus conjoined, in one long kiss,
    That single life which nourished both shall part.


KISS XIV.

  Those tempting lips of scarlet glow
    Why pout with fond, bewitching art?
  For to those lips, Neæra, know,
    My lips shall not one kiss impart.

  Perhaps you’d have me greatly prize,
    Hard-hearted fair, your precious kiss;
  But learn, proud mortal, I despise
    Such cold, such unimpassioned bliss.

  Think’st thou I calmly feel the flame
    That all my rending bosom fires,
  And patient bear, through all my frame,
    The pangs of unallayed desires?

  Ah, no!—but turn not thus aside
    Those tempting lips of scarlet glow;
  Nor yet avert, with angry pride,
    Those eyes, from whence such raptures flow!

  Forgive the past, sweet-natured maid;
    My kisses, love, are all thy own:
  Then let my lips to thine be laid,
    To thine, more soft than softest down.


KISS XV.

  The Idalian boy, to pierce Neæra’s heart,
  Had bent his bow, had chose the fatal dart;
  But when the child, in wonder lost, surveyed
  That brow, o’er which your sunny tresses played,
  Those cheeks, that blushed the rose’s warmest dye,
  That streamy languish of your lucid eye,
  That bosom, too, with matchless beauty bright
  (Scarce Cypria’s own could boast so pure a white),
  Though mischief urged him first to wound my fair,
  Yet partial fondness urged him now to spare.
  But, doubting still, he lingered to decide;
  At length, resolved, he flung the shaft aside,
  Then sudden rushed impetuous to thy arms,
  And hung voluptuous on thy heavenly charms:
  There as the boy in wanton folds was laid,
  His lips o’er thine in varied kisses played;
  With every kiss he tried a thousand wiles,
  A thousand gestures, and a thousand smiles;
  Your inmost breast with Cyprian odors filled,
  And all the myrtle’s luscious scent instilled:
  Lastly, he swore by every power above,
  By Venus’ self, the potent Queen of Love,
  That you, blest nymph, forever should remain
  Exempt from amorous care, from amorous pain.
  What wonder, then, such balmy sweets should flow
  In every grateful kiss your lips bestow?
  What wonder, then, obdurate maid, you prove
  Averse to all the tenderness of love?


KISS XVI.

  Bright as Venus’ golden star,
  Fair as Dian’s silver car,
  Nymph with every charm replete,
  Give me hundred kisses sweet;
  Then as many kisses more
  O’er my lips profusely pour,
  As the insatiate bard could want,
  Or his bounteous Lesbia grant;
  As the vagrant Loves that stray
  On thy lips’ nectareous way;
  As the dimpling Graces spread
  On thy cheeks’ carnationed bed;
  As the deaths thy lovers die;
  As the conquests of thine eye,
  Or the cares and fond delights
  Which its changeful beam incites;
  As the hopes and fears we prove,
  Or the impassioned sighs, in love;
  As the shafts by Cupid sped,
  Shafts by which my heart has bled;
  As the countless stores that still
  All his golden quiver fill.
  Whispered plaints, and wanton wiles,
  Speeches soft, and soothing smiles,
  Teeth-imprinted, tell-tale blisses,
  Intermix with all thy kisses.
  So, when zephyr’s breezy wing
  Wafts the balmy breath of spring,
  Turtles thus their loves repeat,
  Fondly billing, murmuring sweet,
  While their trembling pinions tell
  What delights their bosoms swell.

  Kiss me, press me, till you feel
  All your raptured senses reel;
  Till your eyes, half closed and dim,
  In a dizzy transport swim,
  And you murmur faintly, “Grasp me,
  Swooning, in your arms, oh, clasp me.”
  In my fond sustaining arms
  I will hold your drooping charms;
  While the long, life-teeming kiss
  Shall recall your soul to bliss;
  And, as thus the vital store
  From my humid lips I pour,
  Till, exhausted with the play,
  All my spirit wastes away,
  Sudden, in my turn, I’ll cry,
  “Oh, support me, for I die.”
  To your fostering breast you’ll hold me,
  In your warm embrace enfold me,
  While your breath, in nectared gales,
  O’er my sinking soul prevails,
  While your kisses sweet impart
  Life and rapture to my heart.
    Thus, when youth is in its prime,
  Let’s enjoy the golden time;
  For when smiling youth is past,
  Age these tender joys shall blast:
  Sickness, which our bloom impairs,
  Slow-consuming, painful cares,
  Death, with dire remorseless rage,
  All attend the steps of age.




[Illustration]




THE KISS IN DRAMATIC LITERATURE.


SELECTIONS FROM SHAKSPEARE.

  So full of valor that they smote the air
  For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
  For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
  Towards their project.

                               _Tempest_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Fie, fie! how wayward is this foolish love,
  That, like a testy babe, will scratch the nurse,
  And presently, all humbled, kiss the rod.

                  _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, i. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Why, then we’ll make exchange; here, take you this,
  And seal the bargain with a holy kiss.

                    _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, ii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  She shall be dignified with this high honor,—
  To bear my lady’s train; lest the base earth
  Should from her vesture chance to steal a kiss.

                _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, ii. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The current that with gentle murmur glides,
  Thou know’st, being stopped, impatiently doth rage;
  But, when his fair course is not hindered,
  He makes sweet music with th’ enameled stones,
  Giving a gentle kiss to every sedge
  He overtaketh in his pilgrimage.

                    _Two Gentlemen of Verona_, ii. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Falstaff._ Her husband, dwelling in a continual ’larum of jealousy,
comes me in the instant of our encounter, after we had embraced, kissed,
protested, and, as it were, spoke the prologue of our comedy.

                                                   _Merry Wives_, iii. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

  What is love? ’tis not hereafter;
  Present mirth hath present laughter;
    What’s to come is still unsure:
  In delay there lies no plenty;
  Then come kiss me, sweet-and-twenty,
    Youth’s a stuff will not endure.

               _Twelfth Night_, ii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Take, oh, take those lips away,
    That so sweetly were forsworn;
  And those eyes, the break of day,
    Lights that do mislead the morn:
  But my kisses bring again,
  Seals of love, but sealed in vain.

       _Measure for Measure_, ii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Benedict._ Only foul words; and thereupon I will kiss thee.

_Beatrice._ Foul words is but foul wind, and foul wind is but foul
breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

                                                         _Much Ado_, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  To what, my love, shall I compare thine eyne?
  Crystal is muddy. Oh, how ripe in show
  Thy lips, those kissing cherries, tempting grow!
  That pure congealèd white, high Taurus’ snow,
  Fanned with the eastern wind, turns to a crow
  When thou hold’st up thy hand: Oh, let me kiss
  This princess of pure white, this seal of bliss!

                _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  So sweet a kiss the golden sun gives not
    To those fresh morning drops upon the rose,
  As thy eye-beams, when their fresh rays have smote
    The night of dew that on my cheeks down flows.

                          _Love’s Labor Lost_, iv. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

                      Why, this is he
  That kissed away his hand in courtesy;
              ——the ladies call him, sweet;
  The stairs, as he treads on them, kiss his feet.

                        _Love’s Labor Lost_, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Why, that’s the lady; all the world desires her;
  From the four corners of the earth they come,
  To kiss this shrine, this mortal breathing saint.

                       _Merchant of Venice_, ii. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Some there be that shadows kiss;
  Some have but a shadow’s bliss.

      _Merchant of Venice_, ii. 9.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The moon shines bright. In such a night as this,
  When the sweet wind did gently kiss the trees,
  And they did make no noise——

                       _Merchant of Venice_, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  If you be well pleased with this,
  And hold your fortune for your bliss,
  Turn you where your lady is,
  And claim her with a loving kiss.

          _Merchant of Venice_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Rosalind._ His very hair is of the dissembling color.

_Celia._ Something browner than Judas’: marry, his kisses are Judas’ own
children.

_R._ I’ faith, his hair is of a good color.

_C._ An excellent color: your chestnut was ever the only color.

_R._ And his kissing is as full of sanctity as the touch of holy bread.

_C._ He hath bought a pair of cast lips of Diana: a nun of winter’s
sisterhood kisses not more religiously; the very ice of chastity is in
them.

                                                _As You Like It_, iii. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Rosalind._ Come, woo me, woo me; for now I am in a holiday humor, and
like enough to consent. What would you say to me now, an I were your very
very Rosalind?

_Orlando._ I would kiss before I spoke.

_R._ Nay, you were better speak first; and when you were gravelled for
lack of matter, you might take occasion to kiss. Very good orators, when
they are out, they will spit; and for lovers, lacking (God warn us)
matter, the cleanliest shift is to kiss.

_O._ How if the kiss be denied?

_R._ Then she puts you to entreaty, and there begins new matter.

                                                  _As You Like It_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Clown._ He that comforts my wife is the nourisher of my flesh and blood;
he that cherishes my flesh and blood loves my flesh and blood; he that
loves my flesh and blood is my friend: _ergo_, he that kisses my wife is
my friend.

                                        _All’s Well that Ends Well_, i. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Helena._ I would not tell you what I would. My lord—’faith, yes;—
            Strangers and foes do sunder, and not kiss.

                                _All’s Well that Ends Well_, ii. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

                  I saw sweet beauty in her face,
  Such as the daughter of Agenor had,
  That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,
  When with his knees he kissed the Cretan strand.

                      _Taming of the Shrew_, i. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Petruchio._ I tell you, ’tis incredible to believe
  How much she loves me. Oh, the kindest Kate!—
  She hung about my neck; and kiss on kiss
  She vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,
  That in a twink, she won me to her love.

                         _Taming of the Shrew_, ii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Gremio._ This done, he took the bride about the neck,
  And kissed her lips with such a clamorous smack,
  That, at the parting, all the church did echo.

                          _Taming of the Shrew_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Petruchio._ First kiss me, Kate, and we will.

  _Katharine._ What, in the midst of the street?

  _P._ What, art thou ashamed of me?

  _K._ No sir; God forbid:—but ashamed to kiss.

  _P._ Why, then let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away.

  _K._ Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay.

                                   _Taming of the Shrew_, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

              Never gazed the moon
  Upon the water, as he’ll stand, and read,
  As ’twere, my daughter’s eyes; and, to be plain,
  I think there is not half a kiss to choose
  Who loves another best.

                           _Winter’s Tale_, iv. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

                          Never saw I
  Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth.

                               _Winter’s Tale_, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Leontes._                  You are married?

  _Florizel._ We are not, sir, nor are we like to be;
  The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first.

                               _Winter’s Tale_, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Perdita._          Do not say ’tis superstition that
  I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady,
  Dear queen, that ended when I but began;
  Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

  _Paulina._                      Oh, patience;
  The statue is but newly fixed, the color’s
  Not dry.[19]

  ...

  _Leontes._ There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel
  Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me,
  For I will kiss her.

  _Paulina._        Good my lord, forbear:
  The ruddiness upon her lip is wet;
  You’ll mar it if you kiss it; stain your own
  With oily painting.

                                        _Winter’s Tale_, v. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Is it night’s predominance, or the day’s shame,
  That darkness does the face of earth entomb,
  When living light should kiss it?

                                _Macbeth_, ii. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Macbeth._              I’ll not yield
  To kiss the ground before young Malcolm’s feet,
  And to be baited with the rabble’s curse.

                                 _Macbeth_, v. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,
  As seal to this indenture of my love.

                      _King John_, ii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Fortune shall cull forth
  Out of one side her happy minion;
  To whom in favor she shall give the day,
  And kiss him with a glorious victory.

                          _King John_, ii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Nor let my kingdom’s rivers take their course
  Through my burned bosom; nor entreat the north
  To make his bleak winds kiss my parchèd lips,
  And comfort me with cold.

                               _King John_, v. 6.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Richard to Bolingbroke, kneeling._)

  Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee,
  To make the base earth proud with kissing it.

                         _Richard II._, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Richard to the Queen._)

  Let me unkiss the oath ’twixt thee and me;
  And yet not so, for with a kiss ’twas made.[20]
  ...
  Come, come, in wooing sorrow let’s be brief,
  Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.
  One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part:
  Thus give I mine, and thus I take thy heart.    [_They kiss._

  _Queen._ Give me mine own again; ’twere no good part,
  To take on me to keep, and kill thy heart.      [_Kiss again._
  So now I have mine own again, begone,
  That I may strive to kill it with a groan.

                                      _Richard II._, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I understand thy kisses, and thou mine,
  And that’s a feeling disputation.

                    _1 Henry IV._, ii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Falstaff._ Thou dost give me flattering busses.

  _Doll._ Nay, truly: I kiss thee with a most constant heart.

                                        _2 Henry IV._, ii. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Pistol._ Touch her soft mouth, and march.

  _Bardolph._ Farewell, hostess.             [_Kissing her._

  _Nym._ I cannot kiss, that is the humor of it; but adieu.

                                         _Henry V._, ii. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  I kiss his dirty shoe, and from my heart-strings
  I love the lovely bully.

                                 _Henry V._, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

_King Henry._ Katharine, break thy mind to me in broken English. Wilt
thou have me?

_Katharine._ Dat is, as it shall please de _roy mon pere_.

_Hen._ Nay, it will please him well, Kate; it shall please him, Kate.

_Kath._ Den it shall also content me.

_Hen._ Upon that I will kiss your hand, and I call you—my queen.

_Kath._ _Laissez, mon seigneur, laissez, laissez: ma foy, je ne veux
point que vous abaissez vostre grandeur en baisant la main d’un vostre
indigne serviteure; excusez moy, je vous supplie, mon tres puissant
seigneur._

_Hen._ Then I will kiss your lips, Kate.

_Kath._ _Les dames, et damoiselles, pour estre baisées devant leur
nopces, il n’est pas le coutume de France._

_Hen._ Madam my interpreter, what says she?

_Alice._ Dat it is not de fashion _pour les_ ladies of France,—I cannot
tell what is, _baiser_, _en_ English.

_Hen._ To kiss.

_Alice._ Your majesty _entendre_ bettre _que moy_.

_Hen._ It is not the fashion for the maids in France to kiss before they
are married, would she say?

_Alice._ _Ouy, vrayment._

_Hen._ O Kate, nice customs curtsey to great kings. Dear Kate, you and I
cannot be confined within the weak list of a country’s fashion; we are
the makers of manners, Kate; and the liberty that follows our places
stops the mouths of all find-faults, as I will do yours, for upholding
the nice fashion of your country, in denying me a kiss: therefore,
patiently, and yielding [_kissing her_]. You have witchcraft in your
lips, Kate; there is more eloquence in the sugar touch of them than in
the tongues of the French council, and they should sooner persuade Harry
of England than a general petition of monarchs.

                                                         _Henry V._, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Mortimer._ Direct mine arms, I may embrace his neck,
  And in his bosom spend my latter gasp;
  Oh, tell me, when my lips do touch his cheeks,
  That I may kindly give one fainting kiss.

                                  _1 Henry VI._, ii. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Suffolk to Lady Margaret._)

  Be what thou wilt, thou art my prisoner.
  O fairest beauty, do not fear, nor fly;
  For I will touch thee but with reverent hands,
  And lay them gently on thy tender side.
  I kiss these fingers [_kisses her hand_] for eternal peace.

                                         _1 Henry VI._, v. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _King Henry._            Welcome, Queen Margaret;
  I can express no kinder sign of love,
  Than this kind kiss.

                               _2 Henry VI._, i. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Queen Margaret to Suffolk, kissing his hand._)

  Oh, could this kiss be printed in thy hand,
  That thou mightst think upon these by the seal,
  Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee![21]
  ...
  Oh, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemned
  Embrace, and kiss, and take ten thousand leaves.

                                _2 Henry VI._, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And that I love the tree from whence thou sprang’st,
  Witness the loving kiss I give the fruit.
  [_Aside._] To say the truth, so Judas kissed his master;
  And cried, all hail! when as he meant all harm.

                                      _3 Henry VI._, v. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Teach not thy lip such scorn; for it was made
  For kissing, lady, not for such contempt.

                           _Richard III._, i. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Their lips were four red roses on a stalk,
  Which, in their summer beauty, kissed each other.

                             _Richard III._, iv. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Henry VIII. to Anne Bullen, after the dance._)

                  Sweetheart,
  I were unmannerly, to take you out,
  And not to kiss you.[22]

                 _Henry VIII._, i. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The hearts of princes kiss obedience,
  So much they love it.

                 _Henry VIII._, iii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Cressida._ My lord, I do beseech you pardon me;
  ’Twas not my purpose, thus to beg a kiss:
  I am ashamed,—Oh, heavens! what have I done?

                   _Troilus and Cressida_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  As many farewells as the stars in heaven,
  With distinct breath and consigned kisses to them,
  He fumbles up into a loose adieu;
  And scants us with a single famished kiss,
  Distasted with the salt of broken tears.

                      _Troilus and Cressida_, iv. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Headquarters of the Grecian camp. Enter Diomed with Cressida._)

  _Agamemnon._ Is this the lady Cressid?

  _Diomed._                                Even she.

  _Agam._ Most dearly welcome to the Greeks, sweet lady.

  _Nestor._ Our general doth salute you with a kiss.

  _Ulysses._ Yet is the kindness but particular;
  ’Twere better she were kissed in general.

  _Nest._ And very courtly counsel: I’ll begin.—
  So much for Nestor.

  _Achilles._ I’ll take that winter from your lips, fair lady:
  Achilles bids you welcome.

  _Menelaus._ I had good argument for kissing once.

  _Patroclus._ But that’s no argument for kissing now.
  ...
  The first was Menelaus’ kiss;—this, mine;
  Patroclus kisses you.

  _Men._                      Oh, this is trim!

  _Patr._ Paris and I kiss evermore for him.

  _Men._ I’ll have my kiss, sir:—Lady, by your leave.

  _Cressida._ In kissing, do you render or receive?[23]

  _Patr._ Both take and give.

  _Cres._              I’ll make my match to live.
  The kiss you take is better than you give;
  Therefore no kiss.

  _Men._ I’ll give you boot, I’ll give you three for one.

  _Cres._ You’re an odd man; give even or give none.

  ...

  _Ulyss._ May I, sweet lady, beg a kiss of you?

  _Cres._ You may.

  _Ulyss._            I do desire it.

  _Cres._                          Why, beg, then.

  _Ulyss._ Why, then, for Venus’ sake, give me a kiss
           When Helen is a maid again and his.

  _Cres._ I am your debtor, claim it when ’tis due.

  _Ulyss._ Never’s my day, and then a kiss of you.

                                           _Troilus and Cressida_, iv. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Cressida to Diomed._)

  Thy master now lies thinking in his bed
  Of thee, and me; and sighs, and takes my glove,
  And gives memorial dainty kisses to it,
  As I kiss thee.

                    _Troilus and Cressida_, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Timon, looking on the gold._)

  Thou ever young, fresh, loved, and delicate wooer,
  Whose blush doth thaw the consecrated snow
  That lies on Dian’s lap! thou visible god,
  That solder’st close impossibilities,
  And mak’st them kiss!

                           _Timon of Athens_, iv. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

                            Oh, a kiss
  Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!
  Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss
  I carried from thee, dear; and my true lip
  Hath virgined it e’er since.

                              _Coriolanus_, v. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Go, go, good countrymen, and, for this fault,
  Assemble all the poor men of your sort;
  Draw them to Tiber banks, and weep your tears
  Into the channel, till the lowest stream
  Do kiss the most exalted shores of all.

                           _Julius Cæsar_, i. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Let but the commons hear his testament,
  And they would go and kiss dead Cæsar’s wounds,
  And dip their napkins in his sacred blood.

                          _Julius Cæsar_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

                Last thing he did, dear queen,
  He kissed—the last of many doubled kisses—
  This orient pearl.

                 _Antony and Cleopatra_, i. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

(_Cleopatra to Messenger._)

  If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
  My bluest veins to kiss; a hand, that kings
  Have lipped, and trembled kissing.

                  _Antony and Cleopatra_, ii. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

                We have kissed away
  Kingdoms and provinces.

     _Antony and Cleopatra_, iii. 8.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Antony._ Fare thee well, dame, whate’er becomes of me:
  This is a soldier’s kiss; rebukable,
  And worthy shameful check it were, to stand
  On more mechanic compliment.

                           _Antony and Cleopatra_, iv. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Antony._ I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
  I here importune death awhile, until
  Of many thousand kisses the poor last
  I lay upon thy lips.

  ...

  _Cleopatra._ And welcome, welcome! die, where thou hast lived:
  Quicken with kissing; had my lips that power,
  Thus would I wear them out.

                                 _Antony and Cleopatra_, iv. 13.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Cleopatra._ Come, then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
  ...
  If she first meet the curlèd Antony,
  He’ll make demand of her; and spend that kiss,
  Which is my heaven to have.

                                  _Antony and Cleopatra_, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Imogene._ Then waved his handkerchief?

  _Pisanio._                      And kissed it, madam.

  _Imogene._ Senseless linen! happier therein than I!

                                     _Cymbeline_, i. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

                          Ere I could
  Give him that parting kiss, which I had set
  Betwixt two charming words, comes in my father,
  And, like the tyrannous breathing of the north,
  Shakes all our buds from growing.

                               _Cymbeline_, i. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

                            Cytherea,
  How bravely thou becom’st thy bed! fresh lily!
  And whiter than the sheets! That I might touch!
  But kiss; one kiss! Rubies unparagoned,
  How dearly they do’t!—’tis her breathing that
  Perfumes the chamber thus.

                              _Cymbeline_, ii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Imogene._ Last night ’twas on mine arm; I kissed it;
  I hope it be not gone to tell my lord
  That I kiss aught but he.

                                    _Cymbeline_, ii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, had the monster seen those lily hands
  Tremble, like aspen leaves, upon a lute,
  And make the silken strings delight to kiss them,
  He would not then have touched them for his life.

                         _Titus Andronicus_, ii. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

                      Thou know’st this,
  ’Tis time to fear when tyrants seem to kiss.

                             _Pericles_, i. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A city on whom plenty held full hand,
  Whose towers bore heads so high, they kissed the clouds.

                                         _Pericles_, i. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Gloster._ Oh, let me kiss that hand!

  _Lear._ Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

                                    _King Lear_, iv. 6.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Cordelia._ Oh, my dear father! Restoration, hang
  Thy medicine on my lips; and let this kiss
  Repair those violent harms, that my two sisters
  Have in thy reverence made.

                                 _King Lear_, iv. 7.

       *       *       *       *       *

  These happy masks that kiss fair ladies’ brows.

                        _Romeo and Juliet_, i. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  And in this state she[24] gallops night by night
  ...
  O’er ladies’ lips, who straight on kisses dream;
  Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,
  Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.[25]

                           _Romeo and Juliet_, i. 4.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Romeo._ If I profane with my unworthy hand
  This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this,—
  My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand
  To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

  _Juliet._ Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,
  Which mannerly devotion shows in this;
  For saints have hands that pilgrims’ hands do touch,
  And palm to palm is holy palmers’ kiss.

  _Romeo._ Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?

  _Juliet._ Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in prayer.

  _Romeo._ Oh, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do;
  They pray, grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.

  _Juliet._ Saints do not move, though grant for prayers’ sake.

  _Romeo._ Then move not, while my prayer’s effect I take.
  Thus from my lips, by thine, my sin is purged.

                                                 (_Kissing her._)[26]

  _Juliet._ Then have my lips the sin that they have took.

  _Romeo._ Sin from my lips? Oh, trespass sweetly urged!
  Give me my sin again.

  _Juliet._ You kiss by the book.

                                      _Romeo and Juliet_, i. 5.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh that I were a glove upon that hand,
  That I might touch that cheek!

              _Romeo and Juliet_, ii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  These violent delights have violent ends,
  And in their triumph die! like fire and powder,
  Which, as they kiss, consume.

                       _Romeo and Juliet_, ii. 6.

       *       *       *       *       *

                            They may seize
  On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,
  And steal immortal blessings from her lips;
  Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
  Still blush as thinking their own kisses sin.

                    _Romeo and Juliet_, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Romeo._              Eyes, look your last!
  Arms, take your last embrace! and lips, O you
  The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss,
  A dateless bargain to engrossing death.

                         _Romeo and Juliet_, v. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Juliet._    Drink all, and leave no friendly drop,
  To help me after?—I will kiss thy lips;
  Haply, some poison yet doth hang on them,
  To make me die with a restorative.

                              _Romeo and Juliet_, v. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

Alas, poor Yorick!... Here hung those lips that I have kissed I know not
how oft.

                                                           _Hamlet_, v. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Iago._ Very good; well kissed! an excellent courtesy.

                                       _Othello_, ii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Emilia._ This was her first remembrance[27] from the Moor.
  My wayward husband hath a hundred times
  Wooed me to steal it; but she so loves the token,
  That she reserves it evermore about her,
  To kiss, and talk to.

                                           _Othello_, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Othello._ I found not Cassio’s kisses on her lips;
  He that is robbed, not wanting what is stolen,
  Let him not know it, and he’s not robbed at all.

                                   _Othello_, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Iago._ One of this kind is Cassio:
  In sleep I heard him say, “Sweet Desdemona,
  Let us be wary, let us hide our loves!”
  And then, sir, would he gripe, and wring my hand,
  Cry, “Oh, sweet creature!” and then kiss me hard,
  As if he plucked up kisses by the roots,
  That grew upon my lips.

                                 _Othello_, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Othello._ I kissed thee ere I killed thee,—no way but this,
  Killing myself, to die upon a kiss.

                                              _Othello_, v. 2.


BEN JONSON.

  Their lips were sealed with kisses, and the voice,
  Drowned in a flood of joy at their arrival,
  Had lost her motion, state, and faculty.

                   _Every Man in his Humor_, iii. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oh, sweet Fastidious! Oh, fine courtier! How comely he bows him in his
courtesy! how full he hits a woman between the lips when he kisses!

                                      _Every Man out of his Humor_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Hedon._ You know I call madam Philautia my Honor; and she calls me her
Ambition. Now, when I meet her in the presence anon, I will come to her,
and say, _Sweet Honor, I have hitherto contented my sense with the lilies
of your hand, but now I will taste the roses of your lip_; and, withal,
kiss her: to which she cannot but blushingly answer, _Nay, now you are
too ambitious_. And then do I reply: _I cannot be too Ambitious of Honor,
sweet lady_. Will’t not be good? ha? ha?

_Anaides._ Oh, assure your soul.

_Hedon._ By heaven, I think ’twill be excellent; and a very politic
achievement of a kiss.

                                                _Cynthia’s Revels_, ii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

He that had the grace to print a kiss on those lips should taste wine and
rose-leaves. Oh, she kisses as close as a cockle.

                                                 _Cynthia’s Revels_, v. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

Your city ladies, you shall have them sit in every shop, like the muses,
offering you the Castalian dews and the Thespian liquors to as many as
have but the sweet grace and audacity to—sip of their lips.

                                                      _Poetaster_, iii. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

              A beauty ripe as harvest,
  Whose skin is whiter than a swan all over,
  Than silver, snow, or lilies! A soft lip,
  Would tempt you to eternity of kissing.

                                _Fox_, i. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

Praise them, flatter them, you shall never want eloquence or trust: even
the chastest delight to feel themselves that way rubbed. With praises you
must mix kisses too; if they take them, they’ll take more,—though they
strive, they would be overcome.

                                                    _Silent Woman_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Face._            This is the noble knight,
  I told your ladyship——

  _Mammon._ Madam, with your pardon,
  I kiss your vesture.

  _Dol._ Sir, I were uncivil
  If I would suffer that; my lip to you, sir.

                          _Alchemist_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Subtle._ I cry this lady mercy; she should first
  Have been saluted. [_Kisses her._] I do call you lady,
  Because you are to be one ere ’t be long,
  My soft and buxom widow.

  _Kastril._ Is she, i’ faith?

  _Sub._ Yes, or my art is an egregious liar.

  _Kas._ How know you?

  _Sub._ By inspection on her forehead
  And subtlety of her lip, which must be tasted
  Often, to make a judgment.

                                     _Alchemist_, iv. 1.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Beaufort._ Then I have read somewhere that man and woman
  Were, in the first creation, both one piece,
  And, being cleft asunder, ever since
  Love was an appetite to be rejoined,
  As for example—[_Kisses Lætitia._

                                          _New Inn_, iii. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Prudence._ The hour is come; your kiss.

  _Lady F._ My servant’s song, first.

  _Prudence._ I say the kiss, first; and I so enjoined it.
  At your own peril, do, make the contempt.

  _Lady F._ Well, sir, you must be paid, and legally.

                                      [_Kisses Lovel._

  _Prudence._ Nay, nothing, sir, beyond.

  _Lovel._ One more—I except.
  This was but half a kiss, and I would change it.

  _Prudence._ The court’s dissolved, removed, and the play ended.
  No sound or air of love more; I decree it.

                                                _New Inn_, iv. 3.

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Marian._ You are a wanton.

  _Robin Hood._ _One_, I do confess,
  I _want_-ed till you came; but now I have you
  I’ll grow to your embraces till two souls,
  Distillèd into kisses through our lips,
  Do make one spirit of love.

                          _Sad Shepherd_, i. 2.

       *       *       *       *       *

  She that will but now discover
  Where the wingèd wag doth hover
  Shall to-night receive a kiss,
  How or where herself would wish;
  But who brings him to his mother
  Shall have that kiss and another.

          _Hue and Cry after Cupid._


BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

  Kiss you at first, my lord! ’tis no fair fashion;
  Our lips are like rose-buds: blown with men’s breaths,
  They lose both sap and savor.

                                             _Mad Lover._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Guiomar._ You sent this letter?

  _Rutilio._ My boldness makes me blush now.

  _Guiomar._ I’ll wipe off that;
  And with this kiss I take you for my husband.
  Your wooing’s done, sir; I believe you love me,
  And that’s the wealth I look for now.

                          _Custom of the Country._

       *       *       *       *       *

  My charity shall go along with thee,
  Though my embraces must be far from thee.
  I should have killed thee, but this sweet repentance
  Locks up my vengeance; for which thus I kiss thee,
  The last kiss we must take! And would to Heaven
  The holy priest that gave our hands together
  Had given us equal virtues.

                                       _Maid’s Tragedy._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Duke._ Didst thou ne’er wish, Olympia,
  It might be thus?

  _Olympia._ A thousand times.

  _Duke._ Here, take him!
  Nay, do not blush; I do not jest; kiss sweetly.
  Boy, you kiss faintly, boy. Heaven give ye comfort!
  Teach him,—he’ll quickly learn. There’s two hearts eased now.

                                                _Loyal Subject._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Eros._            While you were honest
  I loved you too.

  _Septimius._ Honest? Come, pr’ythee kiss me.

  _Eros._ I kiss no knaves, no murderers, no beasts,
  No base betrayers of those men that fed ’em;
  I hate their looks; and, though I may be wanton,
  I scorn to nourish it with bloody purchase.

                                         _False One._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Cleopatra._ [_To Cæsar._] I stood slighted,
  Forgotten and contemned; my soft embraces,
  And those sweet kisses you called Elysium,
  As letters writ in sand, no more remembered.

                                   _False One._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Sceva._ [_To Cæsar._] Whilst you are secure here,
  And offer hecatombs of lazy kisses
  To the lewd god of love and cowardice,
  And most lasciviously die in delights,
  You are begirt with the fierce Alexandrians.

                                         _False One._

       *       *       *       *       *

              Come, friends, and kill me.
  Cæsar, be kind, and send a thousand swords;
  The more the greater is my fall. Why stay ye?
  Come, and I’ll kiss your weapons.

                                  _Valentinian._

       *       *       *       *       *

                    Oh, my heart!
  How have I longed to meet you, how to kiss
  Those lily hands, how to receive the bliss
  That charming tongue gives to the happy ear
  Of him that drinks your language!

                       _Faithful Shepherdess._

       *       *       *       *       *

  I am not bashful, virgin; I can please
  At first encounter, hug thee in mine arm,
  And give thee many kisses, soft and warm
  As those the sun prints on the smiling cheek
    Of plums or mellow peaches.

                         _Faithful Shepherdess._


LILLY.

  Cupid and my Campaspe played
  At cards for kisses; Cupid paid:
  He stakes his quiver, bow, and arrows,
  His mother’s doves, and team of sparrows,—
  Loses them too; then down he throws
  The coral of his lip, the rose
  Growing on’s cheek (but none knows how),
  With these the crystal of his brow,
  And then the dimple on his chin:
  All these did my Campaspe win.
  At last he set her both his eyes:
  She won, and Cupid blind did rise.
      O Love! has she done this to thee?
      What shall, alas! become of me?

                   _Alexander and Campaspe._


MARLOWE.

  Was this the face that launched a thousand ships,
  And burnt the topmost towers of Ilium?
  Sweet Helen, make me immortal with a kiss.
  Her lips suck forth my soul: see, where it flies!

                                          _Faustus._


MARSTON.


              She comes like—oh, no simile
  Is precious, choice, or elegant enough
  To illustrate her descent; leap, heart, she comes,—
  She comes! smile, heaven, and, softest southern wind,
  Kiss her cheek gently with perfumèd breath.
  She comes; creation’s purity, admired,
  Adored, amazing rarity,—she comes!
  ...
  Mount, blood, soul, to my lips, taste Hebe’s cup;
  Stand firm on deck, when beauty’s close fight’s up.

                                  _Antonio and Mellida._

       *       *       *       *       *

          If thou knew’st my happiness,
  Thou wouldst even grate away thy soul to dust
  In envy of my sweet beatitude:
  I cannot sleep for kisses; I cannot rest
  For ladies’ letters that importune me
  With such unusèd vehemence of love,
  Straight to solicit them, that—

                           _Antonio and Mellida._


MASSINGER.

                          May I taste
  The nectar of her lip? I do not give it
  The praise it merits: antiquity is too poor
  To help me with a simile to express her:
  Let me drink often from this living spring,
  To nourish new invention.

                        _Emperor of the East._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Sforza._ Can any act, though ne’er so loose, that may
  Invite or heighten appetite, appear
  Immodest or uncomely? Do not move me;
  My passions to you are in extremes,
  And know no bounds:—come, kiss me.

  _Marcelia._ I obey you.

  _Sforza._ By all the joys of love, she does salute me
  As if I were her grandfather! What witch,
  With cursèd spells, hath quenched the amorous heat
  That lived upon these lips? Tell me, Marcelia,
  And truly tell me, is’t a fault of mine
  That hath begot this coldness?

                                          _Duke of Milan._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Francisco_. [_Preserving the dead body of Marcelia._]
                Your ladyship looks pale;
  But I, your doctor, have a ceruse for you.
  See, my Eugenia, how many faces
  That are adored in court, borrow these helps,
                                   [_Paints the cheeks._
  And pass for excellence, when the better part
  Of them are like to this. Your mouth smells sour, too,
  But here is that shall take away the scent,
  A precious antidote old ladies use
  When they would kiss, knowing their gums are rotten.
                                   [_Paints the lips._
  These hands, too, that disdained to take a touch
  From any lip whose owner writ not lord,
  Are now but as the coarsest earth.

                                         _Duke of Milan._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Lovell._ If then you may be won to make me happy,
  But join your lips to mine, and that shall be
  A solemn contract.

  _Lady Allworthy._ I were blind to my own good
  Should I refuse it [_kisses him_]; yet, my lord, receive me
  As such a one, the study of whose whole life
  Shall know no other object but to please you.

                                    _New Way to Pay Old Debts._


FORD.

                    She never used, my lord,
  A second means, but kissed the letter first,
  O’erlooked the superscription, then let fall
  Some amorous drops, kissed it again, talked to it
  Twenty times over, set it to her mouth,
  Then gave it to me, then snatched it back again,
  Then cried, “Oh, my poor heart!” and, in an instant,
  “Commend my truth and secrecy.” Such medley
  Of passion yet I never saw in woman.

                                        _Lady’s Trial._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Piero._ Does not yourself know, lady?

  _Amoretta._ I do not uthe
  To thpen lip-labor upon quethtionths
  That I mythelf can anthwer.

  _Futelli._ No, sweet madam,
  Your lips are destined to a better use,
  Or else the proverb fails of lisping maids.

  _Amoretta._ Kithing you mean; pray come behind with
  Your mockths then,
  My lipth will therve the one to kith the other.

                                        _Lady’s Trial._


HEYWOOD.

  The path of pleasure, and the gate to bliss,
  Which on your lips I knock at with a kiss.

                  _Woman Killed with Kindness._

       *       *       *       *       *

  My wife, the mother to my pretty babes!
  Both those lost names I do restore thee back,
  And with this kiss I wed thee once again.
  Though thou art wounded in thy honored name,
  And with that grief upon thy death-bed liest,
  Honest in heart, upon my soul, thou diest.

                   _Woman Killed with Kindness._


SHIRLEY.

  I’m disinherited, thrown out of all,
  But the small earth I borrow, thus to walk on;
  And, having nothing left, I come to kiss thee,
  And take my everlasting leave of thee, too.
  Farewell! this will persuade thee to consent
  To my eternal absence.

                                  _The Brothers._


DRYDEN.

  She brought her cheek up close, and leaned on his;
  At which he whispered kisses back on hers.

                                      _All for Love._

       *       *       *       *       *

  Oh, let me live forever on those lips!
  The nectar of the gods to these is tasteless.

  _Amphytrion._


OTWAY.

  He scarce afforded one kind parting word,
  But went away so cold, the kiss he gave me
  Seemed the forced compliment of sated love.

                                     _Orphan._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Belvidera._ (_To Jaffier._)
  I’ll make this arm a pillow for thine head,
  And, as thou sighing liest, and swelled with sorrow,
  Creep to thy bosom, pour the balm of love
  Into thy soul, and kiss thee to thy rest;
  Then praise our God, and watch thee till the morning.

                                     _Venice Preserved._


LANSDOWNE.

  The kiss you take is paid by that you give:
  The joy is mutual, and I’m still in debt.

                                _Heroic Love._


GOLDSMITH.

_Marlow._ To guess at this distance, you can’t be much above forty.
[_Approaching._] Yet nearer, I don’t think so much. [_Approaching._] By
coming close to some women, they look younger still; but when we come
very close indeed—[_Attempting to kiss her_.]

_Miss Hardcastle._ Pray, sir, keep your distance. One would think you
wanted to know one’s age as they do horses, by mark of mouth.

                                                  _She Stoops to Conquer._


KNOWLES.

  There may you read in him how love would seem
  Most humble when most bold,—you question which
  Appears to kiss her hand,—his breath or lips!

                                      _Hunchback._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Modus._ You’ve questioned me, and now I’ll question you.

  _Helen._ What would you learn?

  _Mod._ The use of lips?

  _Hel._ To speak.

  _Mod._ Naught else?

  _Hel._ “How bold my modest cousin grows!”
  Why, other use know you?

  _Mod._ I do.

  _Hel._ Indeed!
  You’re wondrous wise! And, pray, what is it?

  _Mod._ This. [_Attempts to kiss her._]

  _Hel._ Soft! My hand thanks you, cousin; for my lips,
  I keep them for a husband! Nay, stand off!
  I’ll not be held in manacles again.

                                                _Hunchback._


SCHILLER.

  _Countess._            Doors creaked and clapped;
  I followed panting, but could not o’ertake thee;
  When on a sudden did I feel myself
  Grasped from behind,—the hand was cold that grasped me.
  ’Twas thou, and thou didst kiss me, and there seemed
  A crimson covering to envelop us.

  _Wallenstein._ That is the crimson tapestry of my chamber.

                                               _Wallenstein._


GOETHE.

  Oh, hear me, look upon me, how my heart
  After long desolation now unfolds
  Unto this new delight, to kiss thy head,
  Thou dearest, dearest one of all on earth,
  To clasp thee with my arms, which were but thrown
  On the void winds before.

                                         _Iphigenia._


ALFIERI.

  O children! O my children! to my soul
  Your innocent words and kisses are as darts
  That pierce it to the quick.

                                    _Alcestis._


LONGFELLOW.

  _Victorian._ Since yesterday I’ve been in Alcala.
  Ere long the time will come, sweet Preciosa,
  When that dull distance shall no more divide us,
  And I no more shall scale thy wall by night
  To steal a kiss from thee, as I do now.

  _Preciosa._ An honest thief, to steal but what thou givest.

                                            _Spanish Student._


BULWER-LYTTON.

  _Melnotte._ I hold her in these arms—the last embrace!
  Never, ah, nevermore shall this dear head
  Be pillowed on the heart that should have sheltered
  And has betrayed! Soft—soft! one kiss—poor wretch!
  No scorn on that pale lip forbids me now!
  One kiss—so ends all record of my crime!
  It is the seal upon the tomb of Hope,
  By which, like some lost, sorrowing angel, sits
  Sad Memory evermore.

                                         _Lady of Lyons._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _De Mauprat._ [_To Julie, kissing her hand._] Ay;
  With my whole heart I love you!—
                [_To De Beringhen._] Now, sir, go,
  And tell that to his Majesty! Who ever
  Heard of its being a state-offence to kiss
  The hand of one’s own wife?

                                        _Richelieu._


TALFOURD.

        The widow of the moment fix her gaze
  Of longing, speechless love upon her babe,
  The only living thing which yet was hers,
  Spreading its arms for its own resting-place,
  Yet with attenuated hand wave off
  The unstricken child, and so embraceless die,
  Stifling the mighty hunger of the heart.

                                          _Ion._

       *       *       *       *       *

                      She scarcely raised
  Her head, until her work—a bridal robe—
  Hung dazzling on her arm; as then she sought
  Her chamber, I impressed one solemn kiss
  Upon her icy brow: then, as aroused
  From stupor by poor sympathy, she threw
  Her arms around my neck; and, whispering low,
  But piercingly, conjured me to keep watch
  Upon her thinkings, lest one erring wish
  Should rise to mar her duty to her lord.

                                      _Glencoe._


MISS MITFORD.

                    He used to call me child,
  His dearest child; and when I grasped his hand
  Would hold me from him with a long fond gaze,
  And stroke my hair, and kiss my brow, and bid
  Heaven bless his sweet Camilla! And to-night
  Nought but to bed! to bed!

                                        _Foscari._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _King._ [_To Cromwell._]                  Sir,
  Thou seest me with my children. Doth thine errand
  Demand their absence?

  _Cromwell._            No. I sent them to thee
  In Christian charity. Thou hast not fallen
  Among the heathen!

  _King._            Howsoever sent,
  It was a royal boon. My heart hath ached
  With the vain agony of longing love
  To look upon those blooming cheeks, to kiss
  Those red and innocent lips, to hear the sound
  Of those dear voices.

                                 _Charles the First._


PROCTER.

                    Oh, Isidora, where—
  Where are you loitering now when Guido’s here?
  By the bright god of love, I’ll punish you,
  Idler, and press your rich red lips until
  The color flies.

                                     _Mirandola._


MRS. BROWNING.

  [_Eve to Adam._]        Because I comprehend
  This human love, I shall not be afraid
  Of any human death; and yet because
  I know this strength of love, I seem to know
  Death’s strength by that same sign. Kiss on my lips,
  To shut the door close on my rising soul,
  Lest it pass outward in astonishment,
  And leave thee lonely.

                                      _Drama of Exile._

       *       *       *       *       *

  _Adam._              A child’s kiss
  Set on thy sighing lips shall make thee glad—
  ...
  Thy hand, which plucked the apple, I clasp close;
  Thy lips, which spake wrong counsel, I kiss close.

                                    _Drama of Exile._


TENNYSON.

  _Milkmaid._ [_Singing without._]

  Shame upon you, Robin,
          Shame upon you now!
  Kiss me would you? with my hands
          Milking the cow?
          Daisies grow again,
          Kingcups blow again,
  And you came and kissed me milking the cow.

  Robin came behind me,
          Kissed me well, I vow;
  Cuff him could I? with my hands
          Milking the cow?
          Swallows fly again,
          Cuckoos cry again,
  And you came and kissed me milking the cow.

  Come, Robin, Robin,
          Come and kiss me now:
  Help it can I? with my hands
          Milking the cow?
          Ringdoves coo again,
          All things woo again,
  Come behind and kiss me milking the cow.

                                 _Queen Mary._




[Illustration]




THE KISS IN FICTION.


EIGHTEENTH- AND NINETEENTH-CENTURY NOVELS.

It is contended by an American humorist, in an argument in favor of
osculation, that it would imply a great want of reverence in us if we
were to set ourselves up as wiser than our ancestors, and refuse to
continue a practice that has been sanctioned by their approval. Yet,
if we follow the curious aberrations in the extent of favor accorded
to it by these ancestors during the last century, we shall be somewhat
puzzled over the reflex as we find it in the novels of different periods.
With the exception of Richardson, however, it must be owned that the
eighteenth-century novelists, from Fielding and Smollett down to the time
of the appearance of Goldsmith, and Maria Edgeworth, and Jane Austen,
prove the truth of the remark of Shaw (“History of English Literature”)
that “the time when Fielding wrote was remarkable for the low tone of
manners and sentiment; perhaps the lowest that ever prevailed in England,
for it was precisely a juncture when the romantic spirit of the old
chivalrous manners was extinguished, and before the modern standard of
refinement was introduced.” Accordingly, in Fielding and Smollett the
heroes and heroines kiss with all the gusto of a coarse and licentious
age, and without waiting for the interesting time which the novelists of
our day select for granting the first long kiss of affection. The readers
of Fielding’s “Amelia” will remember the insulting young nobleman who,
upon meeting the heroine at Vauxhall, cries out, “Let the devil come as
soon as he will, d——n me if I have not a kiss.”

In singular contrast with such athletic and boisterous rudeness are the
overwrought refinement and strained sentiment of Richardson, Fielding’s
contemporary and sometime friend. In the one it is an outbreak of
coarseness or ungoverned passion; in the other it is a ceremonial whose
observance is attended with decorum and solemnity. As a consequence,
there is a great deal of the “naughty but nice” fascination in the
former, and a large proportion of tedious and mawkish twaddle in the
latter. For a specimen of Richardson’s namby-pambyism we may advert to
his “Sir Charles Grandison,” in which we are told that after leaving
Italy and returning to England Sir Charles solicits the hand of Harriet
Byron in true Grandisonian manner. It is amusing to see the lofty style
in which this mirror of chivalry makes love, and to note the extravagance
of his compliments. But let Miss Byron tell the story:

“‘There seems,’ said he, ‘to be a mixture of generous concern and kind
curiosity in one of the loveliest and most intelligent faces in the
world.’”

“‘Thus,’ resumed he, snatching my hand and ardently pressing it with his
lips, ‘do I honor to myself for the honor done me. How poor is man, that
he cannot express his gratitude to the object of his vows for obligations
confessed, but by owing to her new obligations!’” [What a formal pedant
of a lover!]

“In a soothing, tender, and respectful manner, he put his arm round me,
and, taking my own handkerchief, unresisted, wiped away the tears as they
fell on my cheek. ‘Sweet humanity! charming sensibility! check not the
kindly gush. Dew-drops of heaven! (wiping away my tears and kissing the
handkerchief)—dew-drops of heaven, from a mind like that heaven, mild and
gracious.’

“He kissed my hand with fervor; dropped down on one knee; again kissed
it. ‘You have laid me, madam, under everlasting obligations; and will you
permit me before I rise, loveliest of women, will you permit me to beg an
early day?’”

“He clasped me in his arms with an ardor that displeased me not on
reflection, but at the time startled me. He thanked me again on one knee;
I held out the hand he had not in his, with intent to raise him, for
I could not speak. He received it as a token of favor; kissed it with
ardor; arose, _again_ pressed my cheek with his lips. I was too much
surprised to repulse him with anger. But was he not too free? Am I a
prude, my dear?”

Yes, Miss Byron, we are afraid you are a prude, to feel such surprise and
doubt at an innocent kiss after a formal engagement.

By way of another contrast we copy the following passages: In the
“Unhappy Mistake” of Mrs. Behn (Astræa), a lover, who is about to
fight a duel, goes early in the morning to his sister’s bedroom, with
whom Lucretia, the mistress of his affections, is sleeping. “They both
happened to be awake and talking as he came to the door, which his sister
permitted him to unlock, and asked him the reason of his so early rising,
who replied that since he could not sleep he would take the air a little.
‘But first, sister,’ continued he, ‘I will refresh myself at your lips.’
‘And now, madam,’ added he to Lucretia, ‘I would beg a cordial from you.’
‘For that,’ said his sister, ‘you shall be obliged to me for once.’
Saying so, she gently turned Lucretia’s face toward him, and he had his
wish. Ten to one but he had rather have continued with Lucretia than
have gone to her brother, had he known him, for he loved her truly and
passionately. But, being a man of true courage and honor, he took his
leave of them, presently dressed, and tripped away with the messenger,
who made more than ordinary haste.”

As an offset to this, we recur to the story of “Sir Charles Grandison.”
In proof of the “humorous character” of Charlotte Grandison, we are told
that soon after her marriage her husband made her a present of some old
china. “And when he had done,” writes she to Harriet Byron, “taking the
_liberty_, as he phrased it, half fearful, half resolute, to salute his
bride for his reward, and then pacing backwards several steps with such a
strut and crow—I see him yet,—indulge me, Harriet!—I burst into a hearty
laugh; I could not help it; and he, reddening, looked round himself and
round himself to see if anything was amiss on his part. The _man_, the
_man_, honest friend,—I could have said, but had too much reverence for
my husband,—is the oddity; nothing amiss in the garb.”

It is remarkable, says Forsyth, that some of the most immoral novels
in the English language should have been written by women. This bad
distinction belongs to Mrs. Behn, Mrs. Manley, and Mrs. Heywood.
_Corruptio optimi est pessima_, and that such corrupt stories as they
gave to the world were the offspring of female pens is an unmistakable
proof of the loose manners of the age. It is impossible, without the
risk of offence, to quote freely from the works of an age when vice and
indelicacy were triumphant and modesty had left its last footsteps upon
earth.

It is refreshing to pass from their details of profligacy, and the
insidious mischief of their assaults upon domestic purity, to that later
school of fiction which, as Lord Bacon says, “serveth and conformeth
to magnanimity, morality, and delectation.” Foremost among those at
the dawn of the present century, whose ideals are framed according to
the healthful and ennobling standards which conform to the government
and will of God and which command the reverence of man, was Miss Jane
Porter. If her heroes are paragons like Grandison, they are not, like Sir
Charles, models of solemn foppery, insipid in their superiority, correct
as automata in their elaborate politeness, or passing their lives, as
Taine says, “in weighing their duties and making salutations.” They are
quite as irreproachable, while they are far more consistent with the
conditions of our human nature and our human life.

It would be interesting to trace the course of Sobieski, in “Thaddeus
of Warsaw,” from the time when, as an enforced exile, he dropped on
his knees and, “plucking a turf of grass and pressing it to his lips,
exclaimed, ‘Farewell, Poland! farewell all my hopes of happiness!’” to
the hour when he clasped his newly-wedded wife at the grave of Butzou.
But two extracts will suffice to show what manner of man he was. Upon
reading for the third time a letter from Lady Tinemouth containing
assurances of Miss Beaufort’s high regard for him, his heart throbbed
with violent emotion:

“‘Delicious poison!’ cried he, kissing the paper. ‘If adoring thee,
lovely Mary, be added to my other sorrows, I shall be resigned. There
is sweetness even in the thought. Could I credit all that my dear Lady
Tinemouth affirms, the conviction that I possess one kind solicitude in
the mind of Miss Beaufort would be ample compensation for——’

“He did not finish the sentence, but, sighing profoundly, rose from his
chair.

“‘For anything, except beholding her the wife of another!’ was the
sentiment with which his heart panted. Thaddeus had never known a selfish
feeling in his life; and this first instance of his wishing that good
unappropriated which he might not himself enjoy, made him start.

“‘There is a fault in my heart, a dreadful one!’ Dissatisfied with
himself, he was preparing to answer her ladyship’s letter, when,” etc.

When the infatuated and distracted Lady Sara had failed in her desperate
efforts to entice Sobieski from the path of honor and virtue in his own
lodgings, he pityingly and forgivingly attended her to her own home,
where, we are told:

“When Thaddeus had seated Lady Sara in her drawing-room, he prepared to
take a respectful leave; but her ladyship, getting up, laid one hand on
his arm, whilst with the other she covered her convulsive features, and
said, ‘Constantine, before you go, before we part, perhaps eternally, oh,
tell me that you do not hate me! That you do not _hate_ me!’ repeated
she, in a firmer tone; ‘I know too well how deeply I am despised!’

“‘Cease, my dearest madam,’ returned he, tenderly replacing her on
the sofa, ‘cease these vehement expressions. Shame does not depend on
possessing passions, but on yielding to them. You have conquered, Lady
Sara, and in future I shall respect and love you as a dear friend.
Whoever holds the first place in my heart, you shall always retain the
second.’

“‘Noble, generous Constantine!’ cried she, straining his hand to her lips
and bathing it with her tears; ‘I can require no more. May Heaven bless
you wherever you go.’

“Thaddeus dropped upon his knee, imprinted on both her hands a
compassionate and fervent kiss, and, rising hastily, quitted the room
without a word.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the novels of our day, kissing is as indispensable an adjunct to
love-making as it ever was, but its treatment has changed as the æsthetic
and practical views of courtship have changed with the influences
of society. Whether as the impulse of passionate attachment or the
expression of refined affection, it is, for the most part, handled
by our modern writers in a healthful, natural, legitimate, decorous,
and felicitous manner. Those who indulge in namby-pamby effusion or
sentimental gush, on the one hand, or the startling aberrations and
obliquities of inconventionalism on the other, may expect to hear from
the satirists and reviewers. No one entertained for weakly sentimentalism
or affected prettiness more profound contempt and impatience than
Thackeray. Yet where shall we find more exquisite touches than those
which abound in the pages of the great humorist and satirist? Take, for
example, a few scattered passages from “The Newcomes:”

“There she sits; the same, but changed: as gone from him as if she were
dead; departed indeed into another sphere, and entered into a kind of
death. If there is no love more in yonder heart, it is but a corpse
unburied. Strew round it the flowers of youth. Wash it with tears of
passion. Wrap it and envelop it with fond devotion. Break heart, and
fling yourself on the bier, and kiss her cold lips, and press her hand!
It falls back dead on the cold breast again. The beautiful lips have
never a blush or a smile.”

“He took a little slim white hand and laid it down on his brown palm,
where it looked all the whiter: he cleared the grizzled mustachio from
his mouth, and, stooping down, he kissed the little white hand with a
great deal of grace and dignity. There was no point of resemblance, and
yet a something in the girl’s look, voice, and movements, which caused
his heart to thrill, and an image out of the past to rise up and salute
him.”

“The sisters-in-law kissed on meeting, with that cordiality so delightful
to witness in sisters who dwell together in unity.”

“He would not even stop and give his Ethel of old days his hand. I would
have given him I don’t know what, for one kiss, for one kind word; but he
passed on and would not answer me.”

“For months past they had not had a really kind word. The tender old
voice smote upon Clive, and he burst into sudden tears. They rained upon
his father’s trembling old brown hand as he stooped down and kissed it.”

“Clive felt the pathetic mood coming on again, and an immense desire to
hug Lady Ann in his arms and to kiss her. How grateful are we—how touched
a frank and generous heart is—for a kind word extended to us in our pain!”

“The lips of the pretty satirist who alluded to these unpleasant bygones
were silenced, as they deserved to be, by Mr. Pendennis. ‘Do you think,
sir, I did not know,’ says the sweetest voice in the world, ‘when you
went out on your fishing excursions with Miss Amory?’ Again the flow of
words is checked by the styptic previously applied.”

“‘Oh, Pen,’ says my wife, closing my mouth in a way which I do not choose
further to particularize, ‘that man is the best, the dearest, the
kindest creature. I never knew such a good man; you ought to put him into
a book. Do you know, sir, that I felt the very greatest desire to give
him a kiss when he went away? and that one which you had just now was
intended for him?’”

“Laura drove to his lodgings, and took him a box, which was held up to
him, as he came to open the door to my wife’s knock, by our smiling
little boy. He patted the child on his golden head and kissed him. My
wife wished he would have done as much for her; but he would not,—though
she owned she kissed his hand. He drew it across his eyes and thanked her
in a very calm and stately manner.”

“On the day when he went away, Laura went up and kissed him with tears
in her eyes. ‘You know how long I have been wanting to do it,’ this lady
said to her husband.”

“She fairly gave way to tears as she spoke; and for me, I longed to kiss
the hem of her robe, or anything else she would let me embrace, I was so
happy, and so touched by the simple demeanor and affection of the noble
young lady.”

“Ethel walked slowly up to the humble bed, and sat down on a chair near
it. No doubt her heart prayed for him who slept there; she turned round
where his black Pensioner’s cloak was hanging on the wall, and lifted
up the homely garment and kissed it. The servant looked on, admiring, I
should think, her melancholy and her gracious beauty.”

       *       *       *       *       *

From Thackeray to Charles Dickens the transition is easy and pleasant.
The difficulty, in both cases, is to limit the number of our extracts.
These are from “Nicholas Nickleby:”

“It was very little that Nicholas knew of the world, but he guessed
enough about its ways to think that if he gave Miss La Creevy one little
kiss, perhaps she might not be the less kindly disposed towards those he
was leaving behind. So he gave her three or four with a kind of jocose
gallantry, and Miss La Creevy evinced no greater symptoms of displeasure
than declaring, as she adjusted her yellow turban, that she had never
heard of such a thing, and couldn’t have believed it possible.”

“‘Do you remember the boy that died here?’

“‘I was not here, you know,’ said Nicholas, gently; ‘but what of him?’

“‘Why,’ replied the youth, drawing closer to his questioner’s side, ‘I
was with him at night, and when it was all silent he cried no more for
friends he wished to come and sit with him, but began to see faces round
his bed that came from home; he said they smiled, and talked to him; and
he died at last lifting his head to kiss them.’”

“‘Oh, uncle, I am _so_ glad to see you!’ said Mrs. Kenwigs, kissing the
collector affectionately on both cheeks. ‘So glad!’

“Now, this was an interesting thing. Here was a collector of water-rates,
without his book, without his pen and ink, without his double knock,
without his intimidation, kissing—actually kissing—an agreeable
female, and leaving taxes, summonses, notices that he had called, or
announcements that he would never call again, for two quarters’ due,
wholly out of the question. It was pleasant to see how the company looked
on, quite absorbed in the sight, and to behold the nods and winks with
which they expressed their gratification at finding so much humanity in a
tax-gatherer.”

“‘Mr. Nicholas!’ cried Miss La Creevy, starting in great astonishment.

“‘You have not forgotten me, I see,’ replied Nicholas, extending his hand.

“‘Why, I think I should even have known you if I had met you in the
street,’ said Miss La Creevy, with a smile. ‘Hannah, another cup and
saucer. Now, I’ll tell you what, young man; I’ll trouble you not to
repeat the impertinence you were guilty of on the morning you went away.’

“‘You would not be very angry, would you?’ asked Nicholas.

“‘Wouldn’t I!’ said Miss La Creevy. ‘You had better try; that’s all.’

“Nicholas, with becoming gallantry, immediately took Miss La Creevy at
her word, who uttered a faint scream and slapped his face; but it was not
a very hard slap, and that’s the truth.

“‘I never saw such a rude creature!’ exclaimed Miss La Creevy.

“‘You told me to try,’ said Nicholas.

“‘Well, but I was speaking ironically,’ rejoined Miss La Creevy.

“‘Oh! that’s another thing,’ said Nicholas; ‘you should have told me
that, too.’”

“‘Look at me,’ said Nicholas, wishing to attract his full attention.
‘There; don’t turn away. Do you remember no woman, no kind woman, who
hung over you once, and kissed your lips, and called you her child?’

“‘No,’ said the poor creature, shaking his head, ‘no, never.’”

“‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a father, to see such
a man as that, a kissing and taking notice of my children,’ pursued Mr.
Kenwigs. ‘It’s naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a man, to
know that man. It will be naterally very gratifying to my feelings as a
husband, to make that man acquainted with this ewent.’”

“‘No, no,’ cried Arthur, interrupting him, and rubbing his hands in an
ecstasy. ‘Wrong, wrong again. Mr. Nickleby for once at fault: out, quite
out! To a young and beautiful girl; fresh, lovely, bewitching, and not
nineteen. Dark eyes, long eyelashes, ripe and ruddy lips that to look at
is to long to kiss, beautiful clustering hair that one’s fingers itch to
play with, such a waist as might make a man clasp the air involuntarily
thinking of twining his arm about it, little feet that tread so lightly
they hardly seem to walk upon the ground,—to marry all this, sir,
this,—hey, hey!’”

“Upon his knees Nicholas gave him this pledge, and promised again that
he should rest in the spot he had pointed out. They embraced, and kissed
each other on the cheek. ‘Now,’ he murmured, ‘I am happy.’

“He fell into a light slumber, and waking smiled as before; then, spoke
of beautiful gardens, which he said stretched out before him, and were
filled with figures of men, women, and many children, all with light upon
their faces; then, whispered that it was Eden,—and so died.”

The following passages are from “David Copperfield:”

“As my mother stooped down on the threshold to take me in her arms and
kiss me, the gentleman said I was a more highly privileged little fellow
than a monarch,—or something like that; for my later understanding comes,
I am sensible, to my aid here.”

“I am glad to recollect that, when the carrier’s cart was at the gate,
and my mother stood there kissing me, a grateful fondness for her and
for the old place I had never turned my back upon before, made me cry. I
am glad to know that my mother cried too, and that I felt her heart beat
against mine.

“I am glad to recollect that, when the carrier began to move, my mother
ran out at the gate, and called to him to stop, that she might kiss me
once more. I am glad to dwell upon the earnestness and love with which
she lifted up her face to mine.”

“When my mother came down to breakfast and was going to make the tea,
Miss Murdstone gave her a kind of peck on the cheek, which was her
nearest approach to a kiss.”

“‘And I’ll write to you, my dear. Though I ain’t no scholar. And
I’ll—I’ll—’ Peggotty fell to kissing the keyhole, as she couldn’t kiss me.

“‘Thank you, dear Peggotty!’ said I. ‘Oh, thank you! Thank you! Will you
promise me one thing, Peggotty? Will you write and tell Mr. Peggotty and
little Em’ly, and Mrs. Gummidge and Ham, that I am not so bad as they
might suppose, and that I sent ’em all my love,—especially to little
Em’ly? Will you, if you please, Peggotty?’ The kind soul promised, and
we both of us kissed the keyhole with the greatest affection,—I patted
it with my hand, I recollect, as if it had been her honest face,—and
parted.”

“Little Em’ly didn’t care a bit. She saw me well enough, but, instead of
turning round and calling after me, ran away laughing. This obliged me
to run after her, and she ran so fast that we were very near the cottage
before I caught her.

“‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ said little Em’ly.

“‘Why, you knew who it was, Em’ly,’ said I.

“‘And didn’t _you_ know who it was?’ said Em’ly. I was going to kiss her,
but she covered her cherry lips with her hands, and said she wasn’t a
baby now, and ran away, laughing more than ever, into the house.”

“Peggotty was the best, the truest, the most faithful, most devoted, and
most self-denying friend and servant in the world; who had ever loved me
dearly, who had ever loved my mother dearly; who had held my mother’s
dying head upon her arm, on whose face my mother had imprinted her last
grateful kiss. And my remembrance of them both choking me, I broke down
as I was trying to say that her home was my home, and that all she had
was mine, and that I would have gone to her for shelter, but for her
humble station, which made me fear that I might bring some trouble on
her.”

“And, having carried her point, she tapped the doctor’s hand several
times with her fan (which she kissed first), and returned triumphantly to
her former station.”

“Mrs. Markleham was so overcome by this generous speech (which, I need
not say, she had not at all expected or led up to) that she could only
tell the doctor it was like himself, and go several times through that
operation of kissing the sticks of her fan, and then tapping his hand
with it.”

“She put her hand—its touch was like no other hand—upon my arm for a
moment; and I felt so befriended and comforted that I could not help
moving it to my lips and gratefully kissing it.”

“Miss Murdstone had been looking for us. She found us here; and presented
her uncongenial cheek, the little wrinkles in it filled with hair-powder,
to Dora to be kissed. Then she took Dora’s arm in hers, and marched us in
to breakfast as if it were a soldier’s funeral.”

“I hardly knew what I did, I was burning all over to that extraordinary
extent; but I took Dora’s little hand and kissed it, and she let me.
I kissed Miss Mills’s hand, and we all seemed, to my thinking, to go
straight up to the seventh heaven.”

“‘But I haven’t got any strength at all,’ said Dora, shaking her curls.
‘Have I, Jip?’ (the dog.) ‘Oh, do kiss Jip and be agreeable!’

“It was impossible to resist kissing Jip, when she held him up to me for
that purpose, putting her own bright, rosy little mouth into kissing form
as she directed the operation, which she insisted should be performed
symmetrically, on the centre of his nose. I did as she bade me, rewarding
myself afterwards for my obedience, and she charmed me out of my graver
character for I don’t know how long.”

“At length her eyes were lifted up to mine, and she stood on tiptoe to
give me, more thoughtfully than usual, that precious little kiss—once,
twice, three times—and went out of the room.”

“My pretty little Dora’s face would fall, and she would make her mouth
into a bud again, as if she would very much prefer to shut mine with a
kiss.”

“And Mrs. Gummidge took his hand, and kissed it with a homely pathos and
affection, in a homely rapture of devotion and gratitude that he well
deserved.”

The remainder of our selections will be found in “Our Mutual Friend:”

“‘If I get by degrees to be a high-flyer at fashion, then Mrs. Boffin
will by degrees come for’arder. If Mrs. Boffin should ever be less of a
dab at fashion than she is at the present time, then Mrs. Boffin’s carpet
would go back’arder. If we should both continny as we are, why then
_here_ we are, and give us a kiss, old lady.’

“Mrs. Boffin, who, perpetually smiling, had approached and drawn her
plump arm through her lord’s, most willingly complied. Fashion, in the
form of her black velvet hat and feathers, tried to prevent it, but got
deservedly crushed in the endeavor.”

“‘This,’ said Mrs. Wilfer, presenting a cheek to be kissed as sympathetic
and responsive as the back of the bowl of a spoon, ‘is quite an honor.’”

“Arrived at Mr. Boffin’s door, she set him with his back against it,
tenderly took him by the ears as convenient handles for her purpose, and
kissed him until he knocked muffled double knocks at the door with the
back of his head. That done, she once more reminded him of their compact,
and gaily parted from him.”

“She girded herself with a white apron, and busily with knots and pins
contrived a bib to it, coming close and tight under her chin, as if it
had caught her round the neck to kiss her. Over this bib her dimples
looked delightful, and under it her pretty figure not less so.”

“Bella put her arms round his neck and tenderly kissed him on the
high-road, passionately telling him he was the best of fathers and the
best of friends, and that on her wedding morning she would go down on
her knees to him and beg his pardon for having ever teased him or seemed
insensible to the worth of such a patient, sympathetic, genial, fresh,
young heart. At every one of her adjectives she redoubled her kisses, and
finally kissed his hat off, and then laughed immoderately when the wind
took it and he ran after it.”

“With a parting kiss of her fingers to it (the room), she softly closed
the door, and went with a light foot down the great staircase, pausing
and listening as she went, that she might meet none of the household. No
one chanced to be about, and she got down to the hall in quiet. The door
of the late secretary’s room stood open. She peeped in as she passed,
and divined from the emptiness of his table and the general appearance
of things that he was already gone. Softly opening the great hall-door
and softly closing it upon herself, she turned and kissed it on the
outside—insensible old combination of wood and iron that it was—before
she ran away from the house at a swift pace.”

“The good little fellow had become alarmingly limp, and his senses seemed
to be rapidly escaping, from the knees upward. Bella sprinkled him with
kisses instead of milk, but gave him a little of that article to drink,
and he gradually revived under her caressing care.”

“Bella tucked her arm in his, with a merry, noiseless laugh, and they
went down to the kitchen on tiptoe, she stopping on every separate stair
to put the tip of her forefinger on her rosy lips, and then lay it on his
lips, according to her favorite petting way of kissing pa.”

“The purity with which in these words she expressed something of her own
love and her own suffering made a deep impression on him for the passing
time. He held her, almost, as if she were sanctified to him by death, and
kissed her, once, almost as he might have kissed the dead.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of our best writers of fiction have successfully tried their
descriptive power upon the “torrent, tempest, and whirlwind of passion”
which maybe concentrated in a burning kiss, but none of them surpass
Victor Hugo in graphic vigor. Take the following passages, for example,
from “The Hunchback of Notre Dame.” In the exciting scene between
Esmeralda, the gipsy, and Captain Phœbus, the unfortunate girl proceeds:

“‘Look at me! look on her who came to seek you. My soul, life, body, all
are yours. Let us not marry, if it displeases you,—and then, what am I? a
wretched stroller, while you, my Phœbus, are a gentleman. A pretty thing,
truly, for a dancing-girl to wed an officer! I was out of my mind. No,
Phœbus, I will be your toy, your plaything, a slave to you. I am made for
that; sullied, scorned, dishonored, but loved! I will be the proudest
and gladdest of women. And when I shall be old, Phœbus, when my days for
loving you are over, you will, won’t you, still allow me to serve you?
Let others broider your scarfs; I, the servant, may take care of them,
and your sword and your spurs. You will grant me this, Phœbus? So, take
me! we gipsies only are made for the free air and to love.’

“She had flung her arms around the officer’s neck, supplicating him with
a smile shining through her tears. Her delicate throat was scratched by
the rough lace. The intoxicated captain glued his burning lips on the
rounded Moorish shoulders. The young girl, kneeling, her eyes looking
upward, her head thrown back, quivered under the kiss. All at once, above
the stooping head of Phœbus, she beheld another head, with a livid,
convulsed face, wearing the look of a damned soul; near it was a hand
armed with a dagger. It was the face and hand of the priest; he had burst
through the door, and was there. Phœbus could not perceive him. The girl
was frozen stiff and mute by the fear-inspiring apparition,—like a dove
raising its head as the osprey stares over its nest with its round,
unwinking eyes. She could not even utter a scream. She saw the poniard
fall on Phœbus and rise smoking.

“‘Malediction!’ groaned the captain, and he fell.

“She swooned.

“As her eyes closed, as feeling vanished from her, she fancied she felt
impressed on her lips a print of fire, a kiss more burning than the
executioner’s red-hot branding-iron.

“When she came to herself, she was surrounded by the soldiers of the
watch. They carried away the captain, bathed in his blood; the priest had
disappeared (the window at the end of the room, looking on the river,
was wide open); a cloak was picked up which they supposed belonged to
the officer, and she heard it said around her, ‘She is a witch that has
stabbed a captain.’”

The thrilling narrative proceeds with the imprisonment of the poor girl,
the false confession of murder and witchcraft extorted by the terrible
torture of rack and screw and pincer, the visit of the archdeacon, and
his extraordinary confession of maddening love. In the course of his long
and fervid and impetuous appeal for her favor, he says:

“‘Oh, I had not foreseen the torture! Listen: I followed thee into that
chamber of agony; I looked upon thy rough treatment by the torturer’s
infamous hands. I saw thy foot, which to kiss and die at I would give an
empire, I saw it crushed by the horrible irons which have made of living
limbs raw flesh and a pool of blood. While I beheld this, I wielded under
my gown a dagger, with which I furrowed my breast. At the scream thou
gavest, I buried it in my flesh; look, it still bleeds.’”

“‘Oh, to love a woman, to be a priest, to be hated! to love her with
all the fury of one’s soul, to be willing to give for the least of her
smiles one’s blood, salvation, immortality and eternity, this life and
the other; to regret not being a king, genius, emperor, archangel, that a
greater slave might be at her feet; to have her mingling day and night in
one’s thoughts and dreams; and to see her enamored of a soldier’s livery,
and only have to offer her a priest’s coarse gown which is frightful
to and detested by her! To be present with rage and jealousy while she
lavishes on a despicable, empty-brained dog her treasures of love and
beauty! To see that body whose sight makes you burn, that bosom so
peerless, that satin flesh redden under another’s kisses! Oh, to love her
arms and neck, to think of her blue veins visible through her brown skin,
almost to writhe whole nights through on the pavement of one’s cell, and
see all the caresses dreamed of end with the torture!’”

The priest’s nightly dreams, we are told, were dreadful. Writhing on his
bed, “his delirious fancy represented Esmeralda in all the attitudes
that could make blood boil in one’s veins. He saw her as when he had
stabbed the captain, her white throat spotted with the blood of Phœbus,
when the archdeacon had impressed on her shoulders that kiss which,
though half dying then, she had felt scorch her.” One night he became so
inflamed with his uncontrollable passion that he sought relief by a visit
to the gipsy’s cell, to which he had access. His entrance awakened and
bewildered her.

“‘Oh, the priest,’ said she, in a faint voice.

“Her misfortunes came back to her in a flash. She fell back chilled.
The next moment, she felt the priest’s arms enclasp her. She would have
screamed, but could not.

“‘Away, monster, assassin, begone!’ gasped she, in a voice low and
tremulous from rage and fear.

“‘Mercy, mercy!’ muttered the priest, kissing her shoulders.

“She caught his bald head, with both her hands entwined in the rest of
his hair, and forced it away as if his kisses were bites.”

His utmost efforts to win her regard and sympathy were ineffectual. He
was baffled at every step in his desperate advances, and repelled with
immeasurable scorn upon the repetition of his visits. He offered her the
alternative of the gibbet or escape and life; he humbled himself before
her to an incredible degree. In his passionate entreaties, he says:

“‘Why, here am I who would kiss thy feet,—no, no, not thy feet, thou
wouldst not permit that,—but the very ground under thy feet. I weep like
a very child; I tear from my breast, not words, but my heart and my
vitals, to tell thee that I love thee; all is in vain, all! And yet in
thy spirit thou hast naught but tenderness and clemency, thou art radiant
with gentleness; thou art good, kind, merciful as charming. Woe is me!
thou hast not cruelty save for me. Oh, what fatality!’”

At their last meeting he closes a strain of fervid supplication the
rejection of which settles the girl’s fate:

“‘I entreat thee by all that is holy, do not delay until I am of stone
like this scaffold thou choosest in my stead. Think that I hold our two
destinies in my palm, that I am mad, that I can make yawn betwixt us a
bottomless pit, thou unfortunate! wherein my lost soul will pursue thine
through all eternity! One word of kindness! say one word! nothing more
than a word.’

“She parted her lips to answer him. He rushed and fell on his knees
before her to receive with adoration the word—perhaps affectionate—which
was about to leave her lips.

“‘You are an assassin,’ was what she said.

“The priest threw his arms furiously around her, and laughed a devil’s
laugh. ‘Assassin—be it so!’ said he, ‘I will be thine. Thou wouldst not
have me as a slave,—thou shalt have me as master. I have a place to
which I’ll drag thee. Thou shalt go with me; I will make thee go. Thou
art to die, fair one, or be mine! be the priest’s, the apostate’s, the
assassin’s! To-night, dost hear? The grave or my bed!’

“The girl fought in his arms while he covered her with kisses.

“‘Do not bite me, monster!’ she shrieked. ‘Oh, the hateful, infectious
monk! leave me! I will tear out that vile gray hair of yours.’

“He reddened, turned white, then released her, and regarded her moodily.
She thought herself victorious, and went on: ‘I tell you I am for
Phœbus; that it is Phœbus I love, because he is handsome. You, priest,
are old and ugly. Begone.”

The unalterable and final decision was made. It sent Esmeralda to
execution in the Place de Grève, and as the archdeacon watched the
tragedy,—the judicial murder of an innocent creature for his own
crime,—the revengeful hunchback pushed him violently from the tower of
Notre Dame to meet a horrible death upon the pavement below.

       *       *       *       *       *

Charles Reade deals with the kiss in the sturdy and energetic manner
which usually characterizes his writings. In “Put Yourself in his Place,”
the bursting of Ouseley Reservoir gives him one of his best opportunities
for the display of vivid descriptive power and the production of
startling effects and situations. One of the most exciting incidents
attending the avalanche of water occasioned by the rupture of the
embankment was the rescue of Grace Carden from the flood by her lover,
Henry Little:

“He set his knee against the horizontal projection of the window, and
that freed his left hand; he suddenly seized her arm with it, and,
clutching it violently, ground his teeth together, and, throwing himself
backward with a jerk, tore her out of the water by an effort almost
superhuman. Such was the force exerted by the torrent on one side, and
the desperate lover on the other, that not her shoes only, but her
stockings, though gartered, were torn off her in that fierce struggle.

“He had her in his arms, and cried aloud, and sobbed over her, and kissed
her wet cheeks, her lank hair, and her wet clothes, in a wild rapture.
He went on kissing her and sobbing over her so wildly and so long, that
Coventry, who had at first exulted with him at her rescue, began to rage
with jealousy.

“‘Please remember she is my wife,’ he shrieked; ‘don’t take advantage of
her condition, villain!’

“‘Your wife, you scoundrel! You stole her from me once; now come and take
her from me again. Why didn’t you save her? She was near to you. You
let her die; she lives by me and for me, and I for her.’ With this he
kissed her again and held her to his bosom. ‘D’ye see that? liar! coward!
villain!’

“Even across that tremendous body of rushing death, from which neither
was really safe, both rivals’ eyes gleamed hate at each other.”

After a series of miraculous escapes, they descend from the roof of the
house whither they had finally sought protection from the raging waters,
and, staggering among the _débris_, they finally reach rising ground,
where they discover a horse, upon which Henry seats the barefooted Grace.
Their conversation eventually takes this turn:

“‘Let us talk of ourselves,’ said Grace, lovingly. ‘My darling, let no
harsh thought mar the joy of this hour. You have saved my life again.
Well, then it is doubly yours. Here, looking on that death we have just
escaped, I devote myself to you. You don’t know how I love you, but you
shall. I adore you.’

“‘I love you better still.’

“‘You do not; you can’t. It is the one thing I can beat you at, and I
will.’

“‘Try. When will you be mine?’

“‘I am yours. But if you mean when will I marry you, why, whenever you
please. We have suffered too cruelly and loved too dearly for me to put
you off a single day for affectations and vanities. When you please, my
own.’

“At this Henry kissed her little white feet with rapture, and kept
kissing them at intervals all the rest of the way; and the horrors of the
night ended to these two in unutterable rapture, as they paced slowly
along to Woodbine Villa with hearts full of wonder, gratitude, and joy.”

These pleasant passages are from Reade’s “Very Hard Cash:”

“The young man, ardent as herself, and not, in reality, half so timorous,
caught fire, and, seeing a white, eloquent hand rather near him, caught
it and pressed his warm lips on it in mute adoration and gratitude.

“At this she was scared and offended. ‘Oh, keep that for the queen!’
cried she, turning scarlet and tossing her fair head into the air like a
startled stag, and she drew her hand away quickly and decidedly, though
not roughly. He stammered a lowly apology. In the very middle of it she
said, softly, ‘Good-by, Mr. Hardie,’ and swept with a gracious little
courtesy through the door-way, leaving him spell-bound.

“And so the virginal instinct of self-defence carried her off swiftly and
cleverly. But none too soon; for, on entering the house, that external
composure her two mothers, Mesdames Dodd and Nature, had taught her, fell
from her like a veil, and she fluttered up the stairs to her own room
with hot cheeks, and panted there like some wild thing that has been
grasped at and grazed. She felt young Hardie’s lips upon the palm of her
hand plainly; they seemed to linger there still,—it was like light but
live velvet. This and the ardent look he had poured into her eyes set
the young creature quivering. Nobody had looked at her so before, and no
young gentleman had imprinted living velvet on her hand. She was alarmed,
ashamed, and uneasy. What right had he to look at her like that? What
shadow of a right to go and kiss her hand? He could not pretend to think
she had put it out to be kissed; ladies put forth the back of the hand
for that, not the palm. The truth was, he was an impudent fellow, and she
hated him now, and herself too, for being so simple as to let him talk to
her. Mamma would not have been so imprudent when she was a girl.

“She would not go down, for she felt there must be something of this kind
legibly branded on her face: ‘Oh! oh! just look at this young lady! She
has been letting a young gentleman kiss the palm of her hand, and the
feel has not gone off yet; you may see that by her cheeks.’”

“_Jan. 14th._ A sorrowful day. He and I parted, after a fortnight of the
tenderest affection, and that mutual respect without which neither of
_us_, I think, could love long. I had resolved to be very brave; but we
were alone, and his bright face looked so sad; the change in it took me
by surprise, and my resolution failed: I clung to him. If gentlemen could
interpret as we can, he would never have left me. It is better as it
is. He kissed my tears away as fast as they came; it was the first time
he had ever kissed more than my hand,—so I shall have that to think of,
and his dear, promised letters; but it made me cry more at the time, of
course. Some day, when we have been married years and years, I shall tell
him not to go and pay a lady for every tear, if he wants her to leave
off.” [Julia’s Diary.]

“‘Oh, how good you are! oh, how I love you!’

“And she flung a tender arm round his neck, like a young goddess making
love; and her sweet face came so near his he had only to stoop a little,
and their lips met in a long, blissful kiss.

“That kiss was an era in her life. Innocence itself, she had put up her
delicious lips to her lover in pure, though earnest, affection; but the
male fire with which his met them made her blush as well as thrill, and
she drew back a little, abashed and half scared, and nestled on his
shoulder, hiding a face that grew redder and redder.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Burton, in his “Anatomy of Melancholy,” notices those irritating
coquettes, Aretine’s Lucretia, and Philinna, in Lucian, the former of
whom boasted that she had a suitor who loved her dearly, but the more
eagerly he wooed the more she seemed to neglect and to scorn him, and
what she commonly accorded to others—freedom in social intercourse, even
to the extent of osculation—she refused to him; while the latter, in the
presence of her sweetheart Diphilus, kissed Lamprius, his co-rival, in
order to whet the jealousy of the favorite. Our modern novelists give
very little space to character and conduct of this sort, but in the way
of provokingly cool indifference in the sterner sex to the charms and
fascinations of the fair, we find such instances as this, which occurs
in Mühlbach’s “Joseph the Second and his Court,” in an interview between
Kaunitz, the prime minister, and La Foliazzi:

“‘_Vraiment_, you are very presuming to suppose that I shall trouble
myself to come in the carriage’ replied Kaunitz, contemptuously. ‘It is
enough that, the coach being there, the world will suppose that I am
there also. A man of fashion must have the name of possessing a mistress;
but a statesman cannot waste his valuable time on women. You are my
mistress, _ostensibly_, and therefore I give you a year’s salary of four
thousand guilders.’

“‘You are an angel—a god!’ cried La Foliazzi, this time with genuine
rapture. ‘You come upon one like Jupiter, in a shower of gold.’

“‘Yes, but I have no wish to fall into the embraces of my Danaë. Now,
hear my last words. If you ever dare let it transpire that you are not
really my mistress, I shall punish you severely. I will not only stop
your salary, but I will cite you before the committee of morals, and you
shall be forced into a marriage with somebody.’

“The singer shuddered and drew back. ‘Let me go at once into my boudoir.
Is my breakfast ready?’

“‘No; your morning visits there begin to-morrow. Now go home to Count
Palffy, and do not forget our contract.’

“‘I shall not forget it, prince,’ replied the signora, smiling. ‘I await
your coach this evening. You may kiss me if you choose.’ She bent her
head to his and held out her delicate cheek, fresh as a rose.

“‘Simpleton,’ said he, slightly tapping her beautiful mouth, ‘do you
suppose that the great Kaunitz would kiss any lips but those which, like
the sensitive mimosa, shrink from the touch of man? Go away. Count Palffy
will feel honored to reap the kisses I have left.’

“He gave her his hand, and looked after her, as with light and graceful
carriage she left the room.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir Walter Scott, in his “Rob Roy,” tells us how Frank Osbaldistone, in
a moment of confusion and hesitancy, failed to return the half-proffered
embrace of Diana Vernon, as she took leave of him on her way to the
seclusion of conventual life, and how his absence of mind cost him many
a bitter pang afterwards. It reminds one of Michael Angelo, who, at
sixty, was enamored of a beautiful widow who died. The great painter and
sculptor ever afterwards repented that he had not kissed her forehead
and cheeks, as well as her hand, at the hour of parting:

“Miss Vernon had in the mean time taken out a small case, and, leaning
down from her horse towards me, she said, in a tone in which an effort at
her usual quaint lightness of expression contended with a deeper and more
grave tone of sentiment, ‘You see, my dear coz, I was born to be your
better angel. Rashleigh has been compelled to yield up his spoil, and
had we reached this same village of Aberfoil last night, as we purposed,
I should have found some Highland sylph to waft to you all these
representatives of commercial wealth. But there were giants and dragons
in the way; and errant knights and damsels of modern times, bold though
they be, must not, as of yore, run into useless danger. Do not you do so
either, my dear coz.’

“‘Diana,’ said her companion, ‘let me once more warn you that the evening
waxes late, and we are still distant from our home.’

“‘I am coming, sir, I am coming. Consider,’ she added, with a sigh, ‘how
lately I have been subjected to control; besides, I have not yet given my
cousin the packet, and bid him farewell—forever. Yes, Frank,’ she said,
‘_forever_! There is a gulf between us,—a gulf of absolute perdition;
where we go you must not follow; what we do you must not share in.
Farewell,—be happy!’

“In the attitude in which she bent from her horse, which was a Highland
pony, her face, not perhaps altogether unwillingly, touched mine.
She pressed my hand, while the tear that trembled in her eye found
its way to my cheek instead of her own. It was a moment never to be
forgotten,—inexpressibly bitter, yet mixed with a sensation of pleasure
so deeply soothing and affecting as at once to unlock all the floodgates
of the heart. It was _but_ a moment, however; for, instantly recovering
from the feeling to which she had involuntarily given way, she intimated
to her companion she was ready to attend him, and, putting their horses
to a brisk pace, they were soon far distant from the place where I stood.

“Heaven knows, it was not apathy which loaded my frame and my tongue
so much that I could neither return Miss Vernon’s half embrace, nor
even answer her farewell. The word, though it rose to my tongue, seemed
to choke in my throat, like the fatal _guilty_, which the delinquent
who makes it his plea knows must be followed by the doom of death. The
surprise, the sorrow, almost stupefied me. I remained motionless, with
the packet in my hand, gazing after them, as if endeavoring to count the
sparkles which flew from the horses’ hoofs. I continued to look after
even these had ceased to be visible, and to listen for their footsteps
long after the last distant trampling had died in my ears. At length,
tears rushed to my eyes, glazed as they were by the exertion of straining
after what was no longer to be seen. I wiped them mechanically and almost
without being aware that they were flowing, but they came thicker and
thicker; I felt the tightening of the throat and breast,—the _hysterica
passio_ of poor Lear,—and, sitting down by the wayside, I shed a flood
of the first and most bitter tears which had flowed from my eyes since
childhood.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The admirers of Nathaniel Hawthorne’s “Scarlet Letter” will not forget
the caprices of little Pearl.

“‘Dost thou know thy mother now, child?’ asked Hester, reproachfully,
but with a subdued tone. ‘Wilt thou come across the brook and own thy
mother, now that she has her shame upon her, now that she is sad?’

“‘Yes, now I will!’ answered the child, bounding across the brook and
clasping Hester in her arms. ‘Now thou art my mother indeed! and I am thy
little Pearl!’

“In a mood of tenderness that was not usual with her, she drew down her
mother’s head and kissed her brow and both her cheeks. But then, by a
kind of necessity that always impelled this child to alloy whatever
comfort she might chance to give with a throb of anguish, Pearl put up
her mouth and kissed the scarlet letter too!

“‘That was not kind,’ said Hester. ‘When thou hast shown me a little
love, thou mockest me!’”

“Whether influenced by the jealousy that seems instinctive with every
petted child towards a dangerous rival, or from whatever caprice of her
freakish nature, Pearl would show no favor to the clergyman. It was only
by an exertion of force that her mother brought her up to him, hanging
back, and manifesting her reluctance by odd grimaces, of which, ever
since her babyhood, she had possessed a singular variety, and could
transform her mobile physiognomy into a series of different aspects,
with a new mischief in them, each and all. The minister, painfully
embarrassed, but hoping that a kiss might prove a talisman to admit him
into the child’s kindlier regards, bent forward and impressed one on her
brow. Hereupon Pearl broke away from her mother, and, running to the
brook, stooped over it and bathed her forehead until the unwelcome kiss
was quite washed off and diffused through a long lapse of the gliding
water.”

“Pearl either saw and responded to her mother’s feelings, or herself felt
the remoteness and intangibility that had fallen around the minister.
While the procession passed, the child was uneasy, fluttering up and down
like a bird on the point of taking flight. When the whole had gone by,
she looked up into Hester’s face.

“‘Mother,’ said she, ‘was that the same minister that kissed me by the
brook?’

“‘Hold thy peace, dear little Pearl,’ whispered her mother. ‘We must not
always talk in the market-place of what happens to us in the forest.’

“‘I could not be sure that it was he, so strange he looked,’ continued
the child: ‘else I would have run to him and bid him kiss me now before
all the people, even as he did yonder among the dark old trees. What
would the minister have said, mother? Would he have clapped his hand over
his heart, and scowled on me, and bid me begone?’

“‘What should he say, Pearl,’ answered Hester, ‘save that it was no time
to kiss, and that kisses are not to be given in the market-place? Well
for thee, foolish child, that thou didst not speak to him.’”

“The minister withdrew his dying eyes from the old man and fixed them on
the woman and the child.

“‘My little Pearl,’ said he, feebly,—and there was a sweet and gentle
smile over his face, as of a spirit sinking into deep repose; nay, now
that the burden was removed it seemed almost as if he would be sportive
with the child,—‘dear little Pearl, wilt thou kiss me now? Thou wouldst
not yonder in the forest; but now thou wilt?’

“Pearl kissed his lips. A spell was broken. The great scene of grief in
which the wild infant bore a part had developed all her sympathies, and
as her tears fell upon her father’s cheek they were the pledge that she
would grow up amid human joy and sorrow, nor forever do battle with the
world, but be a woman in it. Towards her mother, too, Pearl’s errand as a
messenger of anguish was all fulfilled.

“‘Hester,’ said the clergyman, ‘farewell!’

“‘Shall we not meet again?’ whispered she, bending her face down close
to his. ‘Shall we not spend our immortal life together? Surely, surely,
we have ransomed one another, with all this woe! Thou lookest far into
eternity with those bright, dying eyes!’”

       *       *       *       *       *

In the endless recurrence of “the old story,” the consecutive and
unintermitting reproduction of the pictures

                                    “of the primitive, pastoral ages,
  Fresh with the youth of the world, and recalling Rebecca and Isaac,
  Old and yet ever new, and simple and beautiful always,
  Love immortal and young in the endless succession of lovers,”

we can find no touches more exquisite than these from Rev. Charles
Kingsley’s “Yeast;”

“They parted with a long, lingering pressure of the hand, which haunted
her young palm all night in dreams. Argemone got into the carriage,
Lancelot jumped into the dog-cart, took the reins and relieved his heart
by galloping Sandy up the hill and frightening the returning coachman
down one bank and his led horses up the other.

“‘_Vogue la Galère_, Lancelot! I hope you have made good use of your
time?’

“But Lancelot spoke no word all the way home, and wandered till dawn in
the woods around his cottage, kissing the hand which Argemone’s hand had
pressed.” [Ch. vii.]

“Entranced in wonder and pleasure, Argemone let her eyes wander over
the drawing. And her feelings for Lancelot amounted almost to worship,
as she apprehended the harmonious unity of the manifold conception, the
rugged boldness of the groups in front, the soft grandeur of the figure
which was the lodestar of all their emotions, the virginal purity of
the whole. And when she fancied that she traced in those bland aquiline
lineaments, and in the crisp ringlets which floated like a cloud down to
the knees of the figure, some traces of her own likeness, a dream of a
new destiny flitted before her, she blushed to her very neck; and as she
bent her face over the drawing and gazed, her whole soul seemed to rise
into her eyes, and a single tear dropped upon the paper. She laid her
hand over it and then turned hastily away.

“‘You do not like it? I have been too bold,’ said Lancelot, fearfully.

“‘Oh, no, no! It is so beautiful, so full of deep wisdom! But—but—You may
leave it.’

“Lancelot slipped silently out of the room, he hardly knew why; and when
he was gone, Argemone caught up the drawing, pressed it to her bosom,
covered it with kisses, and hid it, as too precious for any eyes but her
own, in the furthest corner of her secrétaire.

“And yet she fancied that she was not in love!” [Ch. x.]

“‘Argemone! speak; tell me, if you will, to go forever; but tell me first
the truth. You love me!’

“A strong shudder ran through her frame, the ice of artificial years
cracked, and the clear stream of her woman’s nature welled up to the
light, as pure as when she first lay on her mother’s bosom. She lifted up
her eyes, and with one long look of passionate tenderness she faltered
out,—

“‘I love you!’

“He did not stir, but watched her with clasped hands, like one who in
dreams finds himself in some fairy palace and fears that a movement may
break the spell.

“‘Now, go,’ she said; ‘go and let me collect my thoughts. All this has
been too much for me. Do not look sad; you may come again to-morrow.’

“She smiled, and held out her hand. He caught it, covered it with kisses,
and pressed it to his heart. She half drew it back, frightened. The
sensation was new to her. Again the delicious feeling of being utterly
in his power came over her, and she left her hand upon his heart, and
blushed as she felt its passionate throbbings.

“He turned to go,—not as before. She followed with greedy eyes her
new-found treasure; and as the door closed behind him she felt as if
Lancelot was the whole world and there was nothing beside him, and
wondered how a moment had made him all in all to her; and then she sunk
upon her knees and folded her hands upon her bosom, and her prayers for
him were like the prayers of a little child.”

The colors of these pictures are painfully heightened by contrast with
the gloom of the valley of the shadow of death, through which Argemone
was soon afterwards summoned to pass.

       *       *       *       *       *

The treatment of this theme—a theme which is unfailingly attractive to
both sexes, to youth with its yearnings and promptings, to age with its
retrospects and reminiscences—deserves further selections.

In “The Broken Pitcher” of Zchokke, the delightful German story-teller,
is a pleasing scene which shows how the current of love ran smoothly at
last, and how the ambitious plans of a match-making parent were defeated:

“As they entered the parsonage she looked at him affectionately, and,
seeing his bright eyes moistened with tears, she whispered in his ear,
‘_Dear Colin_.’ Then he bent down and kissed her hand. At this, the door
of a room was opened, and the venerable form of Father Jerome stood
before them. Just then the young folks seemed seized with giddiness,
for they held fast to each other for support. I do not know whether it
was the effect of the hand-kissing, or of their veneration for the good
Father.

“Mariette handed him the myrtle-wreath. He placed it around her brow,
and said, ‘_Children, Love one another!_’ beseeching Mariette in the
most tender and touching manner to love Colin. It seems that the old
gentleman had either misunderstood the bridegroom’s name on account of
his deafness, or had forgotten it in consequence of his failing memory,
and thought of course that Colin must be the bridegroom.

“Mariette’s heart was softened by the exhortation of the pious priest,
and with tears and sighs she said, ‘I love him already, and have long
loved him, but he always hated me.’

“‘I hated you, Mariette?’ exclaimed Colin; ‘ever since you came to La
Napoule my soul has lived in you alone. Oh, Mariette! how could I ever
entertain the hope that you had any regard for me?’

“‘Why did you avoid me, Colin, and prefer the society of my companions to
mine?’

“‘Oh, Mariette! I was tossed about on a sea of fear and trembling, of
anxiety and love, whenever I saw you. I had not the courage to approach
you, and if I was not near you I was most miserable.’ As they talked so
earnestly, the good father thought they were quarrelling: so he put his
arms around them, brought them gently together, and said, in an imploring
tone, ‘My dear, dear children, love one another!’

“Then sank Mariette upon Colin’s breast; Colin threw his arms around her,
and both faces beamed with unspeakable delight. They forgot the priest,
forgot everything. Colin’s lips were pressed to Mariette’s sweet mouth.
It was only a kiss, yet a kiss of loveliest forgetfulness. Both were
completely wrapped up in each other. Both had so entirely lost their
recollection that, without knowing what they did, they involuntarily
followed the delighted Father Jerome into the church, and before the
altar.”

       *       *       *       *       *

In “Fair Harvard” is another narrow escape of two loving hearts from
separation:

“The sight of Miss Campbell’s grief recalled Wentworth to his senses.

“‘Forgive me!’ he cried, passionately. ‘I knew not what I said. My love
for you has made me beside myself. It was my wounded vanity that spoke.
It is my misfortune, not your fault, that you did not love me. Tell me
that you forgive me. Though I love you more than all the world besides, I
will never see you again.’

“‘Never again, Wentworth?’ The girl raised her head, a smile broke
through her tears, her lips quivered with tenderness.

“‘Darling, I will never leave you!’ cried her happy lover, and caught her
half reluctant in his arms, and set love’s sweet seal upon his vow.

“A diviner beauty shone from the girl’s fair face; a tenderer light
beamed from her sunny eyes.

“‘Dearest!’ she whispered,—the magic of her voice unlocked the gates
of sense, filled the air with visions of beauty, and called over the
laughing waves the music of heavenly choirs,—‘Dearest, tell me again that
you love me.’ She sank upon her lover’s breast transfigured.

“‘Dearest!’ she again whispered, ‘will you love me always as now?’

“‘Always, darling, always! Would that now were forever? Nay, love, I
would give my hope of immortal life to win this moment of delight!’

“‘Hush! hush!’ the girl clung closer to her lover.

“‘Not such love, but that you will always be noble and true, and—and will
love no one else so well.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

In Charlotte Brontë’s masterpiece, Jane Eyre returns to Thornfield after
the long separation enforced by a painful adventure. She learns, upon
revisiting the old familiar scenes, of the destruction of Thornfield Hall
by fire, and of the violent death of the maniac wife. She finds that the
lonely and sightless Rochester is an occupant of Ferndean manor-house,
and she glides quietly into his parlor unannounced:

“‘This is you, Mary, is it not?’

“‘Mary is in the kitchen,’ I answered.

“He put out his hand with a quick gesture, but, not seeing where I stood,
he did not touch me. ‘Who is this? who is this?’ he demanded, trying, as
it seemed, to _see_ with those sightless eyes,—unavailing and distressing
attempt! ‘Answer me,—speak again!’ he ordered, imperiously and aloud.

“‘Will you have a little more water, sir? I spilled half of what was in
the glass,’ I said.

“‘_Who_ is it? _What_ is it? Who speaks?’

“‘Pilot knows me, and John and Mary know I am here; I came only this
evening,’ I answered.

“‘Great God! what delusion has come over me? What sweet madness has
seized me?’

“‘No delusion, no madness; your mind, sir, is too strong for delusion,
your health too sound for frenzy.’

“‘And where is this speaker? Is it only a voice? Oh! I _cannot_ see, but
I must feel, or my heart will stop, and my brain burst. Whatever—whoever
you are—be perceptible to the touch, or I cannot live.’

“He groped; I arrested his wandering hand and prisoned it in both mine.

“‘Her very fingers!’ he cried; ‘her small slight fingers! If so, there
must be more of her.’

“The muscular hand broke from my custody; my arm was seized, my shoulder,
neck, waist—I was entwined and gathered to him.

“‘Is it Jane? _What_ is it? This is her shape,—this is her size——’

“‘And this is her voice,’ I added. ‘She is all here; her heart, too. God
bless you, sir! I am glad to be so near you again.’

“‘Jane Eyre! Jane Eyre!’ was all he said.

“‘My dear master,’ I answered, ‘I am Jane Eyre; I have found you out. I
am come back to you.’

“‘In truth? In the flesh? My living Jane?’

“‘You touch me, sir,—you hold me, and fast enough; I am not cold like a
corpse, nor vacant like air, am I?’

“‘My living darling! These are certainly her limbs, and these her
features; but I cannot be so blessed after all my misery. It is a dream;
such dreams as I have had at night, when I clasped her once more to my
heart, as I do now; and kissed her as thus—and felt that she loved me,
and trusted she would not leave me.’

“‘Which I never will, sir, from this day.’

“‘Never will, says the vision! But I always woke and found it an
empty mockery; and I was desolate and abandoned,—my life dark, lonely,
hopeless,—my soul athirst and forbidden to drink,—my heart famished and
never to be fed. Gentle, soft dream, nestling in my arms now, you will
fly, too, as your sisters have all fled before you; but kiss me before
you go,—embrace me, Jane.’

“‘There, sir; and there!’

“I pressed my lips to his once brilliant and now rayless eyes,—I swept
his hair from his brow, and kissed that, too. He suddenly seemed to rouse
himself; the conviction of the reality of all this seized him.

“‘It is you,—is it, Jane? You are come back to me, then?’

“‘I am.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

In “Lothair,” Mr. Disraeli does not leave his hero and heroine until they
start to “walk the long path in peace together:”

“‘Where can they have all gone?’ said Lady Corisande, looking round. ‘We
must find them.’

“‘And leave this garden?’ said Lothair. ‘And I without a flower, the only
one without a flower? I am afraid that is significant of my lot.’

“‘You shall choose a rose,’ said Lady Corisande.

“‘Nay; the charm is, that it should be your choice.’

“But choosing the rose lost more time, and, when Corisande and Lothair
reached the arches of golden yew, there were no friends in sight.

“‘I think I hear sounds this way,’ said Lothair, and he led his companion
farther from home.

“‘I see no one,’ said Corisande, distressed, and when they had advanced a
little way.

“‘We are sure to find them in good time,’ said Lothair. ‘Besides, I
wanted to speak to you about the garden at Muriel. I wanted to induce
you to go there and help me to make it. Yes,’ he added, after some
hesitation, ‘on this spot—I believe on this very spot—I asked the
permission of your mother two years ago to express to you my love. She
thought me a boy, and she treated me as a boy. She said I knew nothing
of the world, and both our characters were unformed. I know the world
now. I have committed many mistakes, doubtless many follies; have formed
many opinions, and have changed many opinions; but to one I have been
constant, in one I am unchanged, and that is my adoring love to you.’

“She turned pale, she stopped, then, gently taking his arm, she hid her
face in his breast.

“He soothed and sustained her agitated frame, and sealed with an embrace
her speechless form. Then, with soft thoughts and softer words, clinging
to him, he induced her to resume their stroll, which both of them now
wished might assuredly be undisturbed. They had arrived at the limit
of the pleasure-grounds, and they wandered into the park and its most
sequestered parts. All this time Lothair spoke much, and gave her the
history of his life since he first visited her home. Lady Corisande said
little, but, when she was more composed, she told him that from the first
her heart had been his, but everything seemed to go against her hopes.
Perhaps at last, to please her parents, she would have married the Duke
of Brecon, had not Lothair returned; and what he had said to her that
morning at Crecy House had decided her resolution, whatever might be her
lot, to unite it to no one else but him. But then came the adventure of
the crucifix, and she thought all was over for her, and she quitted town
in despair.”

But not always is the ending thus smoothed and harmonized, mutual
consecration thus rewarded, mutual trust thus irradiated. Sometimes for
the diadem of love is substituted a crown of thorns, and for the aureole
of faith and hope the gloom and shadow of despair; sometimes the steps
which together had been peaceful and happy are made to diverge into the
pathways which lead through dreary interpretation of duty, or fateful
compulsion, to that abiding sorrow which only finds rest in the grave.

       *       *       *       *       *

Here is a sad picture from Anne M. Crane’s “Opportunity:”

“Gazing upon this agony of despair, an uncontrollable impulse swept over
the woman, seized upon her, to stretch out her hands and cry to him,—

“‘Douglas, your only mistake has been in not seeing that my heart is not
dead, but sleeping; that you could still teach me to love you; that we
might yet be supremely happy.’

“How mighty was the temptation would never be known except to Harvey
Berney and her God; but its power culminated and passed before he found
strength to speak again. No, he had voluntarily pledged his word and
promise to another, and that pledge must be redeemed; he must bear his
hard fate as best he might. She thought of the utter desolation which
would descend on another woman’s life, were she now to take from it what
it had rightfully won. For herself it was the surrender of a future
bliss, of a joy which would have come forth in the fulness of time; to
that other it would be annihilation of happiness now and forever. Broken
heart on the woman’s side, broken faith on the man’s,—that price must not
be paid for any earthly good. For his own sake she did not dare to grant
his heart’s desire; ah, yes! and the desire of her own. Better misery,
failure, and disappointment than that they should willingly sink to
false degeneracy.

“Swiftly but surely she had counted the cost, when, after a moment, the
man’s voice again broke the stillness:

“‘From that night I should have gone down to destruction if Rose had not
put out her hand to me. I clung to it then, and my one chance for heaven
and earth is to cling to it until I die. You women, who lead such quiet,
sheltered lives, can never know or comprehend a man’s terrible necessity
for some semblance of hope and happiness. Rose takes me just as I am, and
I pray, for her sake, that she may save me.’

“‘And I pray the same prayer for your sake, and I know that it will be
answered,’ cried Harvey’s quivering voice, as the hot tears sprang to her
eyes.

“The man gazed straight into them.

“I shall remember that,’ he said, in a different tone from that which he
had been using. ‘I shall always remember that, though we part now perhaps
forever. My love is a love for life and death, for time and eternity,
yet for this world we die to each other from to-night. But, Harvey,’ he
said, coming close to her and speaking with a horrible breathlessness, as
though soul and body were being torn asunder, ‘dying men gain their own
rights and privileges.’ He took that noble, tender face within his hands,
and raised it for one last long look. But he could not, he would not
go, taking with him only that. Suddenly the strong arms were about her,
holding her, straining her to that madly-throbbing heart, while upon lips
and cheeks and brow fell long burning kisses, each one of which seemed to
claim and seal her as his own. Suddenly again she felt herself released,
and after a moment knew that he was gone. Then she sank down before the
fire, heart-sick and desolate, knowing that she had surrendered forever
the man who loved her and whom she might have loved.”

But both remembered the words of Robert Browning, “This life of mine
must be lived out, and a grave thoroughly earned,” and both bravely and
patiently endured unto the end. Far different was the tragic fate of the
“Bride of Lammermoor:”

“Lucy covered her face with her hands, and the tears, in spite of her,
forced their way between her fingers. ‘Forgive me,’ said Ravenswood,
taking her right hand, which, after slight resistance, she yielded to
him, still continuing to shade her face with the left; ‘I am too rude—too
rough—too intractable to deal with any being so soft and gentle as you
are. Forget that so stern a vision has crossed your path of life, and let
me pursue mine, sure that I can meet with no worse misfortune after the
moment it divides me from your side.’

“Lucy wept on, but her tears were less bitter. Each attempt which the
master made to explain his purpose of departure only proved a new
evidence of his desire to stay; until, at length, instead of bidding
her farewell, he gave his faith to her forever and received her troth
in return. The whole passed so suddenly, and arose so much out of the
immediate impulse of the moment, that ere the master of Ravenswood could
reflect upon the consequences of the step which he had taken, their lips
as well as their hands had pledged the sincerity of their affection.”

Every reader of this sorrowful story will remember how Lucy was forced by
her mother into an agreement to marry a detested wretch on account of his
wealth; how Ravenswood confronted the family and poured out the terrors
of his wrath and indignation; how he closed his scathing invectives by
turning to Lucy with the words, “And to you, madam, I have nothing
further to say, except to pray to God that you may not become a world’s
wonder for this act of wilful and deliberate perjury;” how Lucy, in a
paroxysm of insanity, attempted to murder Bucklaw in the bridal chamber;
and how, soon after, death closed for her the tragic scenes of earth.

       *       *       *       *       *

How a loving kiss enfeebled and finally paralyzed the arm of a murderess
is told by Bulwer-Lytton in his “Lucretia:”

“Late in the evening, before she retired to rest, Helen knocked gently at
her aunt’s door. A voice quick and startled bade her enter. She came in
with her sweet, caressing look, and took Lucretia’s hand, which struggled
from the clasp. Bending over that haggard brow, she said, simply, yet to
Lucretia’s ear the voice seemed that of command, ‘Let me kiss you this
night!’ and her lips pressed that brow. The murderess shuddered, and
closed her eyes; when she opened them, the angel visitor was gone.”

What followed was the theme of a conference with a fellow-conspirator,
from which we extract the following dialogue:

“Shutting the door with care, and turning the key, Gabriel said, with
low, suppressed passion,—

“‘Well, your mind seems wandering. Speak!’

“‘It is strange,’ said Lucretia, in hollow tones. ‘Can Nature turn
accomplice, and befriend us here?’

“‘Nature! did you not last night administer the——’

“‘No,’ interrupted Lucretia. ‘No; she came into the room; she kissed me
here, on the brow that even then was meditating murder. The kiss burned;
it burns still;—it eats, into the brain like remorse. But I did not
yield; I read again her false father’s protestation of love; I read again
the letter announcing the discovery of my son, and remorse lay still; I
went forth as before; I stole into her chamber; I had the fatal crystal
in my hand——’

“‘Well! well!’

“‘And suddenly there came the fearful howl of a dog: and the dog’s fierce
eyes glared on me; I paused, I trembled; Helen started, woke, called
aloud; I turned and fled. The poison was not given.’”

And afterwards she said,—

“‘That kiss still burns; I will stir in this no more.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

When it comes to the “last scene of all that ends this strange eventful
history,” few can equal in power and pathos the popular writer, Samuel
Warren, as witness one or two passages in the “Diary of a Physician.”

In “The Wife,” which is a record of incredible atrocities on the part of
a brutal husband, and of patient endurance and endless forgiveness on the
part of the wife, we come to the closing scene:

“‘Well, George, we must part!’ said she, closing her eyes and breathing
softly, but fast. Her husband sobbed like a child, with his face buried
in his handkerchief. ‘Do you forgive me?’ he murmured, half choked with
emotion.

“‘Yes, dear—dear—dearest husband! God knows how I do from my heart! I
forgive all the little you have ever grieved me about.’

“‘Oh, Jane—Jane—Jane!’ groaned the man, suddenly stooping over the bed
and kissing her lips in an apparent ecstasy. He fell down on his knees
and cried bitterly.

“‘Rise, George, rise,’ said his wife, faintly. He obeyed her, and she
again clasped his hand in hers.

“‘George, are you there—are you?’ she inquired, in a voice fainter and
fainter.

“‘Here I am, love!—oh, look on me! look on me!’ he sobbed, gazing
steadily on her features. ‘Say once more that you forgive me! Let me hear
your dear, blessed voice again—or—or—’

“‘I do! kiss me—kiss me,’ she murmured, almost inaudibly; and her
unworthy, her guilty husband kissed away the last expiring breath of one
of the loveliest and most injured women whose hearts have been broken by
a husband’s brutality.”

In that singular instance of premonstration, “The Broken Heart,” we
follow with eager interest to its natural and most sorrowful conclusion
the sorrowful revelation so unexpectedly made to a gentle and pensive
girl, in the midst of her song at a brilliant party, of the death of her
affianced on the battle-field. There was nothing left for her then but to
welcome the peace of the grave,—

  “Like a lily drooping,
  Bow her head and die.”

On the family’s being summoned into the chamber of death,—

“Her sister Jane was the first that entered, her eyes swollen with
weeping, and seemingly half suffocated with the effort to conceal her
emotions.

“‘Oh, my darling, precious,—my own sister Annie!’ she sobbed, and knelt
down at the bedside, flinging her arms round her sister’s neck, kissing
the gentle sufferer’s cheeks and mouth.

“‘Annie! love! darling!—don’t you know me?’ she groaned, kissing her
forehead repeatedly. Could I help weeping? All who had entered were
standing around the bed, sobbing, and in tears. I kept my fingers at the
wrist of the dying sufferer, but could not feel whether or not the pulse
beat, which, however, I attributed to my own agitation.

“‘Speak—speak—my darling Annie! speak to me; I am your poor sister Jane!’
sobbed the agonized girl, continuing fondly kissing her sister’s cold
lips and forehead. She suddenly started, exclaimed, ‘Oh, God! _she’s
dead!_’ and sank instantly senseless on the floor. Alas, alas! it was too
true; my sweet and broken-hearted patient was no more.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of “Guy Livingstone” gives us these noteworthy passages:

“He bent down his lofty head, and instantly their lips met, and were set
together fast.

“A kiss! Tibullus, Secundus, Moore, and a thousand other poets and
poetasters have rhymed on the word for centuries, decking it with the
choicest and quaintest conceits. But, remember, it was with a kiss that
the greatest of all criminals sealed the unpardonable sin; it was a
kiss which brought on Francesca punishment so unutterably piteous that
he swooned at the sight who endured to look on all the other horrors of
nine-circled hell.”

“He laid the light burden, that scarcely weighed upon his arm, down on
the pillows, very softly and gently, smoothing them mechanically with his
hand. Then he stooped and pressed one kiss more on the pale lips: they
never felt it, though the passion of that lengthened caress might almost
have waked the dead. And so those two parted, to meet again upon earth
never more.

“The next time woman’s lips touched Guy Livingstone’s, they were his
mother’s, and he had been a corpse an hour.”




[Illustration]




THE KISS IN HUMOROUS STORY AND ANECDOTE.


FATHER TOM AND THE POPE.

Every one who knows anything of the humorous literature of the century
has laughed a hundred times over that wonderful story of “Father Tom
and the Pope; or, A Night at the Vatican,” which has been attributed to
so many of the leading Irish humorists, and is enough of itself to have
made the reputation of the best of them. From its first appearance, in
“Blackwood,” Catholics and Protestants alike have enjoyed its marvellous
and abounding fun, and it is one of the few things written in our time
which people do not refuse to read to-day because of having read them
yesterday and the day before.

Those who know the story will remember that the reverend Father being
“in Room, ov coorse the Pope axed him to take pot-look wid him,” and
they proceeded together to “invistigate the composition of distilled
liquors.” As sociability grew warm between them, Father Tom volunteered
to astonish his Holiness with a new “preparation ov chymicals,” after the
manner of the “ould counthry.” To make this “miraculous mixthir” exactly
what it ought to be, his reverence insisted that “a faymale hand was
ondispinsably necessary to produce the adaptation ov the particles,” and
the butler of the Vatican had accordingly brought up “Miss Eliza,” one of
the fairest maids of the household, that she might stir the milk in the
skillet with the little finger of her right hand. Miss Eliza is described
as “stepping like a three-year-old, and blushing like the brake of day,”
and the Pope had very early to rebuke his reverence with some sternness
for his “deludhering talk to the young woman.” Nothing daunted, however,
the gallant Father managed somehow to upset the candle and put the
“windy-curtains” in peril of fire, and while the rest of the company were
engaged in “getting things put to rights,” the incident, or accident,
occurred which can only be told in the words of the story.

“And now,” says Mickey Hefferman, the story-teller, “I have to tell you
ov a raally onpleasant occurrence. If it was a Prodesan that was in it,
I’d say that while the Pope’s back was turned, Father Tom made free wid
the two lips ov Miss Eliza; but, upon my conscience, I believe it was
a mere mistake that his Holiness fell into, on account ov his being an
ould man and not having aither his eyesight or his hearing very parfect.
At any rate it can’t be denied but that he had a sthrong imprission that
sich was the case; for he wheeled about as quick as thought jist as
his riv’rence was sitting down, and charged him wid the offince plain
and plump. ‘Is it kissing my housekeeper before my face you are, you
villain?’ says he. ‘Go down out o’ this,’ says he to Miss Eliza, ‘and do
you be packing off wid you,’ he says to Father Tom, ‘for it’s not safe,
so it isn’t, to have the likes ov you in a house where there’s timptation
in your way.’

“‘Is it me?’ says his riv’rence; ‘why, what would your Holiness be at, at
all? Sure I wasn’t doing no sich thing.’

“‘Would you have me doubt the evidence ov my sinses?’ says the Pope;
‘would you have me doubt the testimony ov my eyes and ears?’ says he.

“‘Indeed I would so,’ says his riv’rence, ‘if they pretind to have
informed your Holiness ov any sich foolishness.’

“‘Why,’ says the Pope, ‘I seen you afther kissing Eliza as plain as I see
the nose on your face; I heard the shmack you gave her as plain as ever I
heard thundher.’

“‘And how do you know whether you see the nose on my face or not?’
says his riv’rence; ‘and how do you know whether wrhat you thought was
thundher was thundher at all? Them operations ov the sinses,’ says he,
‘comprises only particular corporayal emotions, connected wid sartin
confused perciptions called sinsations, and isn’t to be depended upon
at all. If we were to follow them blind guides, we might jist as well
turn heretics at ons’t. ’Pon my secret word, your Holiness, it’s naither
charitable nor orthodox ov you to set up the testimony ov your eyes and
ears agin the characther of a clargyman. And now see how aisy it is to
explain all them phwenomena that perplexed you. I ris and went over
beside the young woman because the skillet was boiling over, to help her
to save the dhrop ov liquor that was in it; and as for the noise you
heard, my dear man, it was naither more nor less nor myself dhrawing the
cork out ov this blessed bottle.’

“‘Don’t offer to thrape that upon me!’ says the Pope; ‘here’s the cork in
the bottle still, as tight as a wedge.’

“‘I beg your pardon,’ says his riv’rence; ’that’s not the cork at all,’
says he. ‘I dhrew the cork a good two minits ago, and it’s very purtily
spitted on the end ov this blessed cork-shcrew at this prisint moment;
howandiver you can’t see it, because it’s only its raal prisince that’s
in it. But that appearance that you call a cork,’ says he, ‘is nothing
but the outward spacies and external qualities of the cortical nathur.
Them’s nothing but the accidents of the cork that you’re looking at and
handling; but, as I tould you afore, the raal cork’sdhrew, and is here
prisint on the end ov this nate little insthrument, and it was the noise
I made in dhrawing it, and nothing else, that you mistook for the sound
ov the _pogue_.’

“You know there was no conthravaning what he said, and the Pope couldn’t
openly deny it. Howandiver he thried to pick a hole in it this way.

“‘Granting,’ says he, ‘that there is the differ you say betuxt the
raality ov the cork and them cortical accidents, and that it’s quite
possible, as you allidge, that the thrue cork is raaliy prisint on the
end ov the shcrew, while the accidents keep the mouth of the bottle
stopped; still,’ says he, ‘I can’t undherstand, though willing to acquit
you, how the dhrawing ov the raal cork, that’s onpalpable and widout
accidents, could produce the accident ov that sinsible explosion I heard
jist now.’

“‘All I can say,’ says his riv’rence, ‘is that I’m sinsible it was a raal
accident, anyhow.’

“‘Ay,’ says the Pope, ‘the kiss you gev Eliza, you mane.’

“‘No,’ says his riv’rence, ‘but the report I made.’”


THE STUDENT OF UPSALA.

Mary Howitt, in her “Frederika Bremer and her Swedish Sisters,” repeats
the pleasant story of a university student at Upsala in the early part
of the present century. He was the son of a poor widow, and was standing
with some of his college companions in one of the public walks on a fine
Sunday morning. As they were thus standing, the young daughter of the
governor, a good and beautiful girl, was seen approaching them on her way
to church, accompanied by her governess.

Suddenly the widow’s son exclaimed, “I am sure that young girl would give
me a kiss!”

His companions laughed, and one of them, a rich young fellow, said, “It
is impossible! Thou an utter stranger, and in a public thoroughfare! It
is too absurd to think of.”

“Nevertheless, I am confident of what I say,” returned the other.

The rich student offered to lay a heavy wager that, so far from
succeeding, he would not even venture to propose such a thing.

Taking him at his word, the poor student, the moment the young lady and
her attendant had passed, followed them, and politely addressing them,
they stopped, on which, in a modest and straightforward manner, he said,
speaking to the governor’s daughter, “It entirely rests with Fröken to
make my fortune.”

“How so?” demanded she, greatly amazed.

“I am a poor student,” said he, “the son of a widow. If Fröken would
condescend to give me a kiss, I should win a large sum of money, which,
enabling me to continue my studies, would relieve my mother of a great
anxiety.”

“If success depend on so small a thing,” said the innocent girl, “I can
but comply;” and therewith, sweetly blushing, she gave him a kiss, just
as if he had been her brother.

Without a thought of wrong-doing, the young girl went to church, and
afterwards told her father of the encounter.

The next day the governor summoned the bold student to his presence,
anxious to see the sort of person who had thus dared to accost his
daughter. But the young man’s modest demeanor at once favorably impressed
him. He heard his story, and was so well pleased that he invited him to
dine at the castle twice a week.

In about a year the young lady married the student whose fortune she
had thus made, and who is at the present day a celebrated Swedish
philologist. His amiable wife died a few years since.


TUNNEL STORIES.

The well-known court-plaster incident is said to have occurred in one of
the tunnels of the Hudson River Railroad. A very pretty lady was seated
opposite to a good-looking gentleman who was accompanying a party to
Saratoga Springs. It was observed that this exceedingly handsome young
woman had the smallest bit of court-plaster on a slight abrasion of the
surface of her red upper lip. As the cars rumbled into the darkness
of the tunnel, a slight exclamation of “Oh!” was heard from the lady,
and when the cars again emerged into the light, the little piece of
court-plaster aforesaid had become in some mysterious manner transferred
to the upper lip of the young gentleman! Curious, was it not?

A Western youth played a trick on two school-girls returning home for
vacation, which is thus reported:

Occupying a seat on the train just back of them, he entered into a
flirtation which was in no way discouraged. The train came to a dark
tunnel, and when it got midway he kissed the back of his own hand
audibly,—gave it a regular buss. Each girl, of course, charged the other
with guilt, and the passengers thought possibly the youth had kissed
both. When they got home, each told the joke on the other, and for the
first time two girls have the credit of having been kissed without having
enjoyed that pleasure.

A similar story, but with an improvement, is told of Horace Vernet, the
eminent painter.

The artist was going from Versailles to Paris by railway. In the same
compartment with him were two ladies whom he had never seen before, but
who were evidently acquainted with him. They examined him minutely, and
commented freely upon his martial bearing, his hale old age, the style of
his dress, etc. They continued their annoyance until finally the painter
determined to put an end to the persecution. As the train passed through
the tunnel of St. Cloud, the three travellers were wrapped in complete
darkness. Vernet raised the back of his hand to his mouth, and kissed it
twice violently. On emerging from the obscurity, he found that the ladies
had withdrawn their attention from him, and were accusing each other of
having been kissed by a man in the dark!

Presently they arrived at Paris; and Vernet, on leaving them, said,
“Ladies, I shall be puzzled all my life by the inquiry, _Which_ of these
two ladies was it that kissed me?”

A correspondent of one of the London morning papers writes, “The
following little incident which happened the other day illustrates the
necessity of providing more light in the carriages of the Metropolitan
Underground Railway. A gentleman had taken his seat in a second-class
carriage which had already nine occupants. On the side opposite to him
sat one of the prettiest women he had ever seen. She had entered the
carriage accompanied by an elderly gentleman, who seated himself opposite
to her, and whose attentions to the lady left little doubt that they
stood to one another in the relation of husband and wife. The light was
exceedingly dim when they started. At Victoria Station, a boy, who sat
next to the elderly gentleman, got out. In consequence of the departure
of the boy there was a moving up of the tightly-wedged passengers on that
side of the carriage, and the gentleman whom I first mentioned was thus
brought right opposite to the lady whose beauty had already attracted his
attention, and sat in the position originally occupied by her elderly
companion. From Victoria to South Kensington they were left in total
darkness, and this is what happened, in the words of the narrator: ‘A
light little hand was laid on my shoulder; I felt a sweet warm breath
fan my face; a pair of the softest, most perfect lips were pressed to
mine with a delicious sensation which I cannot describe. Then a little
hand slid down my arm, thrilling every nerve in my body, and finally
deposited three lozenges in my hand. As we neared the lights of South
Kensington Station, the hand was withdrawn. May the gentleman on my left
ever remain in blissful ignorance of the mistake made by his better half
in the darkness of that tunnel.’ Let us echo that wish, and hope that the
secret of three lozenges was never divulged. Under certain circumstances
darkness has its advantages,—that is to say, if you are not travelling
with your wife.”

Those who have read “The Newcomes” will probably remember the following
passage:

“A young gentleman and a young lady a-kissing of each other in the
railway coach,” says Hannah, jerking up with her finger to the ceiling,
as much as to say, “There she is! Lar, she be a pretty young creature,
that she be! and so I told Miss Martha.” Thus differently had the news
which had come to them on the previous night affected the old lady and
her maid.

The news was that Miss Newcome’s maid (a giddy thing from the country,
who had not even learned as yet to hold her tongue) had announced with
giggling delight to Lady Ann’s maid that Mr. Clive had given Miss Ethel
a kiss in the tunnel, and she supposed it was a match.

Clive, we are told, did not know whether to laugh or to be in a rage over
this report. He evidently felt called upon, however, to swear that he was
as innocent of all intention of kissing Miss Ethel as of embracing Queen
Elizabeth.


AN AMOROUS WESTERN YOUTH.

A young Montana chap upon stepping aboard of a sleeping-car thus
addressed the conductor:

“See here, captain, I want one of your best bunks for this young woman,
and one for myself individually. _One_ will do for us when we get to
the Bluff,—hey, Mariar?” (Here he gave a playful poke at “Mariar,” to
which she replied, “Now, John, quit.”) “For, you see, we’re goin’ to git
married at Mariar’s uncle’s. We might ’a bin married at Montanny, but
we took a habit to wait till we got to the Bluff, bein’ Mariar’s uncle
is a minister, and they charge a goshfired price for hitchin’ folks at
Montanny.”

“Mariar” was assigned to one of the best “bunks.” During a stoppage of
the train at a station, the voice of John was heard in pleading accents,
unconscious that the train had stopped, and that his tones could be heard
throughout the car:

“Now, Mariar, you might give a feller jes one.”

“John, you quit, or I’ll git out right here, and hoof it back to Montanny
in the snow-storm.”

“Only one little kiss, Mariar, and I hope to die if I don’t——”

“John——!”

At this moment an old gray-beard poked his head out of his berth, at the
other end of the car, and cried out,

“Maria, for pity’s sake, _give_ John one kiss, so that we can go to sleep
sometime to-night!”

Thereupon John subsided, and retired to his berth to dream of the
distinction between the hesitancy of the kiss of courtship and the
freedom of the kiss connubial.


LOVE IN A STREET-CAR.

A Baltimore writer narrates the following amusing incident:

Having business that required my attention in the northwestern section of
the city until a late hour, I, at half-past eleven o’clock, found myself
seated in a Madison Avenue car. At the crossing of Franklin and Eutaw
Streets a young couple entered the car, and occupied a seat in the corner
opposite myself. Being a great admirer of the fair sex, I stole a glance
at the lady, and was recompensed by beholding a very handsome young miss,
with black hair and eyes,—the latter appearing as if Cupid had rented the
premises and was determined to dispute the sway of man. Her companion was
a biped attired in a new suit of Harrison Street store clothes, as gay as
a peacock. The first thing he did after seating himself was to encircle
the neck of the lady with his left arm, while his right hand lovingly
grasped her left. Not being used to such scenes (being a bachelor), I
kept my t’other eye open, and noted down the proceedings in my mind.

“Clara,” began the passionate lover, “ain’t this nice? I swon, it’s a
good deal better’n ridin’ in the old wagin!”

“Yes, Josh,” feebly articulated Clara. “But don’t hug me so; the folks
are lookin’ at us.”

“Well, let ’em look!” retorted Josh. “Guess they’d like tu be in my place
a spell, ennyhow!” (I, for one, did most heartily envy him the position.)

“Yes; but, Josh, you know they will laugh at us,” meekly rejoined his
companion.

“Let ’em laugh!” exclaimed the irate lover. “Don’t I love you, and don’t
you love me, and ain’t we a-goin’ to git married to-morrer?”

Josh at this moment appeared as though a brilliant idea had struck him,
for he suddenly bent over and kissed his fair companion squarely in the
mouth.

“There!” said he, exultingly; “ain’t that nice? You don’t allers git
them sort!” Then, turning to the occupants of the car, he exclaimed,
“Strangers, me and this young woman have come down from the country to
git married. She is a nice gal, and I’m a-goin’ to do the right thing by
her!”

During the delivery of this concise speech, Clara’s face was suffused
with blushes; noticing which, her ardent lover remarked, “Don’t git so
all-fired red about the gills, Clara. You know that we are a-goin’ to be
married; and what’s the use to fluster up so?”

This last speech settled the business of the passengers. They gave one
shout, and relieved themselves of a charge of laughter that had almost
strangled them. At the next corner I vacated the car, leaving the happy
couple as contented as if the future denoted nothing but sunshine.


TAKING TOLL.

A gentleman of an autobiographic turn relates how he was instructed in
the custom of taking toll, by a sprightly widow, during a moonlight
sleigh-ride with a merry party. He says:

The lively widow L. sat in the same sleigh, under the same buffalo-robe,
with me.

“Oh! oh! don’t, don’t!” she exclaimed, as we came to the first bridge,
at the same time catching me by the arm and turning her veiled face
towards me, while her little eyes twinkled through the moonlight.

“Don’t what?” I asked. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Well, but I thought you were going to take toll,” replied the widow.

“_Toll!_” I rejoined. “What’s that?”

“Well, I declare!” cried the widow, her clear laugh ringing out above the
music of the bells, “you pretend you don’t know what toll is!”

“Indeed I don’t, then,” I said, laughing; “explain, if you please.”

“You never heard, then,” said the widow, most provokingly,—“you never
heard that when we are on a sleigh-ride the gentlemen always,—that is,
sometimes,—when they cross a bridge, claim a kiss, and call it toll. But
I never pay it.”

I said that I had never heard of it before; but when we came to the next
bridge I claimed the toll, and the widow’s struggles to hold the veil
over her face were not enough to tear it. At last the veil was removed,
her round, rosy face was turned directly towards mine, and in the clear
light of a frosty moon the toll was taken, for the first time in my
experience. Soon we came to a long bridge, with several arches; the widow
said it was of no use to resist a man who would have his own way, so she
paid the toll without a murmur.

“But you won’t take toll for every arch, _will_ you?” she said, so archly
that I could not fail to exact all my dues; and that was the beginning of
my courtship.


SUDDEN ATTACHMENT.

It is related of Curran, the famous Irish orator and wit, that he was
one evening sitting in a box at the French Opera, between an Irish
noblewoman, whom he had accompanied there, and a very young French lady.
The ladies soon manifested a strong desire to converse, but neither of
them knew a word of the other’s language. Curran, of course, volunteered
to interpret, or, in his own words, “to be the carrier of their thoughts,
and accountable for their safe delivery.” They went at it at once, with
all the ardor and zest of the Irish and French nature combined; but
their interpreter took the liberty of substituting his own thoughts
for theirs, and instead of remarks upon the dresses and the play he
introduced so many finely-turned compliments that the two ladies soon
became completely fascinated with each other. At last, their enthusiasm
becoming sufficiently great, the wily interpreter, in conveying some very
innocent questions from his countrywoman, asked the French lady “if she
would favor her with a kiss.” Instantly springing across the orator, she
imprinted a kiss on each cheek of the Irish lady, who was amazed at her
sudden attack, and often afterwards asked Mr. Curran, “What in the world
could that French girl have meant by such conduct in such a place?” He
never revealed the secret, and the Irish lady always thought French girls
were very ardent and sudden in their attachments.


EARLY DISCRIMINATION.

A judicious mother told her little girls they must not be hanging around
and kissing the young gentlemen who visited the house; it was not
becoming in them, and it might be troublesome. A few days afterwards an
old gentleman, a friend of the family, called, and, while noticing the
children, drew one of them to him and offered to kiss the little thing.
But no, she would have nothing of the sort; and when the gentleman was
gone, the mother said,—

“My dear, when a nice old gentleman like that offers to kiss a little
girl like you, you shouldn’t put on such airs and refuse him. I was quite
ashamed of your conduct.”

“But, mother, you told us we mustn’t kiss the gentlemen,” said Maggie.

“Maggie, there is a great difference between letting young men kiss you,
and such old people as Mr. Venable who just went out. When such persons
offer to kiss you, it is to show their kind feelings, and you should take
it as a compliment, and not act foolishly.”

Maggie put on a very serious face, and, after thinking upon it awhile,
replied, “Well, mother, if I _have_ to kiss the gentlemen, I would a
great deal rather kiss the young ones.”

Children and fools speak the truth.


THE BAFFLED COURTIER.

The “Book of Merrie Jests” relates in the quaintness of a century or two
ago how that the wonderful Sir Digby Somerville did keep constantly a
houseful of grand company at his seat in Suffolk. At one time among his
guests did happen a young gentleman from the court, whose apparel was
more garnished with lacings and gold than his brain with modesty or wit.
One time, going into the fields with his host, they did espy a comely
milkmaiden with her pail.

“Pr’ythee, Phyllis,” quoth the courtier, leering the while at the girl,
“an I give thee a kiss, wilt thou give me a draught of thy ware?”

“In the meadow,” quoth she, “thou wilt find one ready to give thee milk,
and glad of thy kiss, for she is of thy kind.”

The court-gallant looked in the meadow, and espied a she-ass.

“So sharp, fair rustic!” quoth he, angrily: “thou lookest as if thou
couldst barely say boo to a goose.”

“Yea, and that I can, and to a gander also.” Whereat she cried out
lustily, “Boo!”

The young man hastened away, and the worshipful Sir Digby did laugh
heartily, and entertained his guests with the tale.


A THANKFUL SPIRIT.

The chronicles of the time of John Brown of Haddington, author of the
“Marrow of Divinity,” describe his first osculatory experience. He had
reached the mature age of five-and-forty without ever having taken part
in labial exercises. One of his deacons had a very charming daughter,
and for six years the dominie had found it very pleasant to call upon
her three or four times a week. In fact, all the neighbors said he was
courting her; and very likely he was, though he had not the remotest
suspicion of it himself.

One evening he was sitting as usual by her side, when a sudden idea
popped into his head.

“Janet, my woman,” said he, “we’ve known each other a long time,
an’—an’—I’ve never got a kiss yet. D’ye, think I may take one, my bonnie
lass?”

“Well, Mr. Brown,” replied she, arching her lips in a tempting way, “jist
as ye like; only be becomin’ and proper wi’ it.”

“Let us ask a blessing first,” said the good man, closing his eyes and
folding his hands. “For what we are about to receive, the Lord make us
thankful.”

The chaste salute was then given and warmly returned.

“Oh, Janet, that _was_ good!” cried the dominie, electrified by the new
sensation. “Let us have another, and then return thanks.”

Janet did not refuse, and when the operation had been repeated, the
enraptured dominie ejaculated, in a transport of joy, “For the creature
comforts which we have now enjoyed, the Lord be praised, and may they be
sanctified to our temporal and eternal good!”

History says that the fervent petition of the honest dominie was duly
answered; for in less than a month Janet became Mrs. Brown.


A CLERGYMAN’S JOKE.

A gentleman who was travelling in the West a few years ago relates this
amusing incident:

I was spending the night in a hotel in Freeport, Illinois. After
breakfast I came into the sitting-room, where I met a pleasant, chatty,
good-humored traveller, who, like myself, was waiting for the morning
train from Galena. We conversed freely and pleasantly on several topics,
until, seeing two young ladies meet and kiss each other in the street,
the conversation turned on _kissing_, just about the time the train was
approaching.

“Come,” said he, taking up his carpet-bag, “since we are on so sweet a
subject, let us have a practical application. I’ll make a proposition to
you. I’ll agree to kiss the most beautiful lady in the cars from Galena,
you being the judge, if you will kiss the next prettiest, I being the
judge.”

The proposition staggered me a little, and I could hardly tell whether he
was in earnest or in fun; but, as he would be as deep in it as I could
possibly be, I agreed, provided he would do the first kissing, though my
heart failed somewhat as I saw his black eye fairly sparkle with daring.

“Yes,” said he, “I’ll try it first. You take the back car, and go in from
the front end, where you can see the faces of the ladies, and you stand
by the one you think the handsomest, and I’ll come in from behind and
kiss her.”

I had hardly stepped inside the car when I saw at the first glance one of
the loveliest-looking women my eye ever fell upon,—a beautiful blonde,
with auburn hair, and a bright, sunny face, full of love and sweetness,
and as radiant and glowing as the morning. Any further search was totally
unnecessary. I immediately took my stand in the aisle of the car by her
side. She was looking out of the window earnestly, as if expecting some
one. The back door of the car opened, and in stepped my hotel friend.
I pointed my finger slyly to her, never dreaming that he would dare to
carry out his pledge; and you may imagine my horror and amazement when
he stepped up quickly behind her, and, stooping over, kissed her with a
relish that made my mouth water from end to end.

I expected of course a shriek of terror, and then a row generally, and a
knock-down; but astonishment succeeded astonishment when I saw her return
the kisses with compound interest.

Quick as a flash he turned to me, and said, “Now, sir, it is your turn;”
pointing to a hideously ugly, wrinkled old woman who sat in the seat
behind.

“Oh, you must excuse me! you must excuse me!” I exclaimed. “I’m sold this
time. I give up. Do tell me whom you have been kissing.”

“Well,” said he, “since you are a man of so much taste and such quick
perception, I’ll let you off.” And we all burst into a general peal of
laughter, as he said, “This is my wife! I have been waiting here for her.
I knew that was a safe proposition.” He told the story to his wife, who
looked tenfold sweeter as she heard it.

Before we reached Chicago, we exchanged cards, and I discovered that my
genial companion was a popular Episcopalian preacher whose name I had
frequently heard.


“LET ME KISS HIM FOR HIS MOTHER.”[28]

Among the funny incidents that took place during the late sectional
conflict between the States is one that is thus recorded:

A young lady of the gushing sort, while passing through one of the
military hospitals, overheard the remark that a young lieutenant had died
that morning.

“Oh, where is he? Let me see him! Let me kiss him for his mother!”
exclaimed the maiden.

The attendant led her into an adjoining ward, when, discovering
Lieutenant H., of the Fifth Kansas, lying fast asleep on his hospital
couch, and thinking to have a little fun, he pointed him out to the girl.
She sprang forward, and, bending over him, said:

“Oh, you dear lieutenant, let me kiss you for your mother!”

What was her surprise when the awakened “corpse” ardently clasped her in
his arms, returned the salute with interest, and exclaimed:

“Never mind the old lady, miss; go it on your own account. I haven’t the
slightest objection.”

From the lyrics perpetrated by the “satirical wags” during the popularity
of the above well-known phrase, we cite the following:

  Let me kiss her for her mother—
    The bewitching Polly Ann—
  Let me kiss her for her mother,
    Or any other man.

  Let me kiss her for some body,
    Any body in the world;
  With her hair so sweetly auburn,
    And so gloriously curled.

  Let me kiss her for her “feller,”
    And I do not care a red
  If he taps me on the smeller
    With a “billy made of lead.”

  Let me kiss her for her daddy,—
    The pretty, pouting elf,—
  Or, if that don’t suit the family,
    Let me kiss her for myself.


THE AWAKENING.

An adventure befell a Tennessee poet, which he narrates in very moving
verse, but which we transmute into plain prose. He had been hunting, one
sultry day, and, being very tired, lay down under a shady tree, with his
faithful dog by his side. He there fell asleep, and dreamed the orthodox
dream of all young poets. A maiden “beautiful exceedingly” approached
him, and, after a very brief wooing, expressed a perfect willingness to
bless the poet with her affections. Hereupon,—but plain prose cannot do
justice to the _dénouement_, so we must give it in the poet’s own verse:

  I kissed her, but,—oh, shocking!
    I kissed a beard so rough!
  Surprised, half choked, awaking,—
    Ah, broken was the charm;
  There lay—will you believe it?—
    _My pointer on my arm._


JEAN PAUL’S SCHOOL-BOY EXPERIENCE.

When Jean Paul was first sent to school, a mischievous boy, taking
advantage of his inexperience, told him that it was an established custom
for each pupil, when he first entered, to kiss the hand of the master.
This seemed to Paul but a suitable custom, and by no means extraordinary,
as in his own family it was an established expression of reverence from
the young to the old, and Paul, whenever he went to his grandfather’s,
kissed his hand behind the loom. When he entered the French school,
therefore, he bashfully approached the master, and, with honest faith,
carried the brawny hand to his lips.

The poor Frenchman,—an indifferent and poorly-paid instructor, who had
been a tapestry-worker,—suspecting some mystification or insult, broke
out into the most violent anger, and Paul barely escaped a blow from the
hand on which he had imprinted his loyal homage. The mirth of the class
was expressed in a jubilant manner, and, between them both, Paul stood
confused, ashamed, and in the highest degree mortified.

In this instance, we are told, he was taken by surprise, and betrayed
by his loyal nature; but in another attempt to impose upon him he
asserted his rank as a scholar with a degree of firmness and dignity that
compelled respect ever after.


THE FIRST KISS.

Who has forgotten the emotions inspired by the first kiss? Pierce
Pungent has exhausted himself in a vain attempt to describe what may be
remembered, but cannot and should not be told. He says:

“We never believed Pope’s line,

  ‘Die of a rose in aromatic pain,’

till we once accidentally got a kiss awarded to us at a game of forfeits,
some fifty years ago. _Eheu! fugaces!_ The fair one in question was the
secret idol of our soul. Oh, those cerulean eyes! those flowing silken
tresses! those ruby lips! that exquisite form!

  ‘Her presence was as lofty as her state;
    Her beauty of that overpowering kind
  Whose force description only would abate:
    I’d rather leave it much to your own mind
  Than lessen it by what I could relate
    Of form and feature.’

“But we must tear ourself away from these charms and return to our
mutton, or, rather, our lamb, for our heart’s worship was only eighteen
cents a pound,—confound the butchers! the high price of meat has confused
our notions,—we mean she was only eighteen years of age. When we found
ourself entitled to a kiss by the sacred game of forfeits, the keenness
of the rapture almost grew into a toothache. A kiss seemed more than we
could manage; it grew into Titanic dimensions. We had a vague notion of
asking the company to help us out by sharing our bliss, as the school-boy
who, when he hears of his two-hundred-pound cake being on the road,
promises all his comrades a slice, but when it arrives he keeps it all to
himself!

“A kiss from Mary! and all to our own cheek! Oh! and then the blushing
shame of a first love, vulgarly called calf, came over us, and we stood
looking at our Mary’s lips as a thief does at the gallows! Oh! those
sunny eyes! Oh, those luxuriant tresses! as she shook them off her
radiant face, as a dove shakes her feathers and a dog his hide, in order
to leave more cheek to kiss! Oh, those provoking lips, pursed up ready,
like the peak of Teneriffe, to catch the first kiss of love, that rosy
light from heaven! Oh, that circling dimple, couched in her cheek like
laughing wile! And oh! that moment when she said, ‘Well, if Cousin Pierce
won’t kiss me, I’ll kiss him!’ She stooped down,—my sight grew dim,—my
heart beat fast, as though I had swallowed a dose of prussic acid; her
lips touched mine; the world slid away, as it does when we soar in a
balloon; and we were carried away into a calm delirium, which has never
altogether left us.”


KISSING THE FEET.

Seneca tells us that Caius Cæsar gave wine to Pompey Pennus, whom he had
pardoned, and then, on his returning thanks, presented his left foot
for him to kiss. This custom is still practised in Oriental countries,
where it is regarded as a mark of the deepest reverence and most profound
humility. Don Juan, in his feminine disguise, disdainfully refused such
subjection, even to the Sultana:

  “Baba, when all the damsels were withdrawn,
    Motioned to Juan to approach, and then
  A second time desired him to kneel down,
    And kiss the lady’s foot; which maxim when

  He heard repeated, Juan with a frown
    Drew himself up to his full height again,
  And said, ‘It grieved him, but he could not stoop
  To any shoe, unless it shod the Pope.’”

Finally the matter was compromised by kissing the hand, the proud
Castilian promptly acknowledging the requirement of a common courtesy:

  “For through the South the custom still commands
  The gentleman to kiss the lady’s hands.”

Sir R. K. Porter, the Eastern traveller, tells the readers of his
interesting sketches of a Persian who was not only not so fastidious,
but ludicrously otherwise in the depth of his self-abasement. Says Sir
Robert, “I took a lancet out of my pocket-book, put it into his hands,
and told him it was for himself. He looked at me, and at it, with his
mouth open, as if he hardly comprehended the possibility of my parting
with such a jewel. But when I repeated the words, ‘It is yours,’ he threw
himself on the ground, kissed my knees and my feet, and wept with a joy
that stifled his expression of thanks.”


ALL-EMBRACING INCLUSION.

In that old-fashioned youthful game, “Kiss in the Ring,” a favorite
manœuvre of some of the boys was to keep out of a place in the ring till
they had kissed all the pretty girls in succession. Those who grow up
with the same fondness for osculatory attentions would probably like
the custom in some parts of Germany, which requires a young man who is
engaged to a girl to salute, upon making his adieu for the evening,
the whole of the family, beginning with the mother. Thus, in a family
circle embracing half a dozen girls, each having a lover, no less
than forty-eight kisses would have to be given on the occasion of a
united meeting; and when we consider that each lover would give his own
sweetheart ten times as many kisses as he gave her sisters, the grand
total would outnumber a hundred!


A KISS IN THE DARK.

In Buckstone’s very amusing farce, “A Kiss in the Dark,” the jealous
Pettibone tries a foolish stratagem in order to confirm his unjust
suspicions of Mrs. P.’s constancy:

_Frank_ (_reading note_). “Continue your attentions.” Certainly, as you
request it. (_Draws close to her; PETTIBONE again darts in; they retreat
as before._)

_Pettibone._ Shan’t go out at all—I tell you I shan’t go out at
all—to-morrow will do. (_Sits in centre._) You’ve done as I bid you, I
see—eh?—ah, ah, ah! (_Aside._) I think the last time I left the room he
kissed her! I could almost swear I heard the squeak of a little kiss.
Oh, if I could be convinced! I’ll conceal my feelings till I’m _quite_
satisfied—_quite_ sure; and then——Betsey, dear, if that note you were
writing just now is for any one in the city, I’ll leave it for you.

_Mrs. P._ No, no, thank you, it is not worth the trouble, and you
wouldn’t be so mean as to defraud the revenue of a penny.

_Pet._ How they look at each other! I’ve a great mind to jump up and
tell ’em both how they’ve deceived me. No, I won’t. I’ll set a trap for
them—show ’em what they are: ah! a good thought—I have it.

_Mrs. P._ Selim, what’s the matter with you, this evening?

_Pet._ Nothing; I’ve been vexed,—city business. I think, as I have a
moment to spare, I’ll drop a note to the wine merchant about the empty
bottles (_takes inkstand to a table_): he ought to fetch ’em away, or I
shall be charged for ’em. What horrid candles! (_Snuffs one out._) Why
did I go to the expense of a handsome lamp, when you will burn candles?
(_In trying to light it he purposely extinguishes the other; stage dark._)

_Mrs. P._ P., dear, how clumsy you are!

_Pet._ Sit still—I’ll get a light; Mary’s cooking—I’ll get a light.
(_He pours some ink on his pocket-handkerchief, and in passing MRS. P.,
contrives to leave a large patch on her nose._)

_Mrs. P._ P., what are you doing?

_Pet._ Nothing, dear, nothing; sit still. I’ll fetch a light.

                                                                  [_Exit._

_Frank._ Is it really your wish that I should continue my attentions?
(_Getting close to her._) Gad, she’s a fine woman, and I never in my life
could be in the dark with one, without giving her a kiss; and, encouraged
as I am, who could resist?

                                                  [_Attempts to kiss her._

_Mrs. P._ Don’t, don’t; I won’t allow it; how can you be so foolish?
(_Kisses her, and blacks his nose._) Go away: here’s P. (_Lights up;
FRANK returns to his chair as P. enters, stands between them moonstruck
at seeing FRANK’S face; he trembles, places one candle on the table, and
seizes MRS. P.’S arm._)

_Pet._ Woman, look at that man—look at his nose. Now go to your room—to
the glass, and look at your own! come, madam, come.

                                                      [_He drags her off._

_Frank._ Very strange conduct; however, my poor friend is severely
punished for the pains he has taken to test his wife’s constancy....

In the _dénouement_ the position of Mrs. P. and Frank is explained:

_Pet._ Not Betsey!—the lady I’ve pulled about so—not Betsey! Who are
you, madam? Explain, before I faint away—who are you?

_Frank._ That lady, sir, is my wife. (_FRANK and LADY embrace._)

_Pet._ Your wife! and really you are not going to elope?—you are still
your own Pettibone’s?—but that kiss in the dark, madam! what can remove
that stain?

_Mrs. P._ My candid confession——

_Pet._ Of what?

_Mrs. P._ That I overheard the test by which I was to be tried, and,
knowing in my heart that I did not deserve such a trial, I was resolved,
as you had thought proper to suspect me without a cause, for once to give
you a reason for your jealousy.

_Pet._ (_on his knees._) Oh, Betsey, forgive me....

       *       *       *       *       *

The city of Nashville boasts of a smiling-contest, as an adjunct to a
Presbyterian church fair. There were three competitors, young men, and a
judge to decide which of them smiled most sweetly. Three trials were had,
the contestants standing on a platform in full view of the assembly, with
a strong light thrown on their faces. Louis Tillichet was declared the
winner of the prize, which was the privilege of kissing any one of the
girls attending the candy-counter, where the prettiest daughters of the
church were engaged.

       *       *       *       *       *

A lady asked her little boy, “Have you called your grandma to tea?” “Yes.
When I went to call her she was asleep, and I didn’t wish to halloo at
grandma, nor shake her; so I kissed her cheek, and that woke her very
softly. Then I ran into the hall, and said, pretty loud, ‘Grandma, tea is
ready.’ And she never knew what woke her up.”


A BUDGET OF FACETIÆ.

A Columbia clergyman, who, while preaching a sermon on Sunday evening,
perceived a man and woman under the gallery in the act of kissing each
other behind a hymn-book, did not lose his temper. No! he remained calm.
He beamed mildly at the offenders over his spectacles, and when the young
man kissed her the fifteenth time, he merely broke his sermon short off
in the middle of “thirdly,” and offered a fervent prayer in behalf of
“the young man in the pink neck-tie and the maiden in the blue bonnet
and gray shawl, who were profaning the sanctuary by kissing one another
in pew seventy-eight.” And the congregation said “Amen.” Then the woman
pulled her veil down, and the young man sat there and swore softly to
himself. He does not go to church as much now as he did.

       *       *       *       *       *

At Boulogne, during the reception of Queen Victoria, some years ago, a
number of English ladies, in their anxiety to see everything, pressed
with such force against the soldiers who were keeping the line that the
latter were forced to give way, and generally were—to use the expression
of policemen—“hindered in the execution of their duty.” The officer in
command, observing the state of affairs, called out, “One roll of the
drum,—if they don’t keep back, kiss them all.” After the first sound of
the drum the ladies took to flight. “If they had been French,” said a
Parisian journal, “they would have remained to a woman.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The portrait-painter, Gilbert Stuart, once met a lady in Boston, who said
to him, “I have just seen your likeness, and kissed it because it was so
much like you.” “And did it kiss you in return?” said he. “No,” replied
the lady. “Then,” returned the gallant painter, “it was not like me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mary Kyle Dallas says love-making is always awkward. “A stolen kiss, if
seen, creates a laugh; a squeeze of the hand, if detected, is a great
joy. I myself, who claim to be romantic, did grin at a shadow picture
cast upon the wall of the white garden fence, next door, by an envious
gas-light, when I saw the shadow of the young lady with much waterfall
feed the shadow of the young gentleman with no whiskers with sugar-plums
and then kiss it; but the shadows were very black, and took odd crinks in
their noses as they moved to and fro, and that may have been the cause of
my mirth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Oh! your nose is as cold as ice,” a Boston father thought he heard his
daughter exclaim the other evening, as he was reading in the next room.
He walked in for an explanation, but the young fellow was at one end of
the sofa and the girl at the other, while both looked so innocent and
unconscious that the old gentleman concluded that his ears had deceived
him, and so retired from the scene without a word.

       *       *       *       *       *

A country girl, coming from a morning walk, was told that she looked as
fresh as a daisy kissed by the dew, to which she innocently replied,
“You’ve got my name right, Daisy; but his isn’t Dew.”

       *       *       *       *       *

SCENE at the Atlantic Telegraph office.

_Fond Wife_ (_to telegraph-operator_). “Oh, sir! I want to send a kiss
to my husband in Liverpool. How can I do it?”

_Obliging Operator._ “Easiest thing in the world, ma’am. You’ve got to
give it to me with ten dollars, and I’ll transmit it right away.”

_Fond Wife._ “If that’s the case, the directors ought to put much younger
and handsomer men in your position.”

(Operator’s indignation is great.)

       *       *       *       *       *

A young lady of Cincinnati, who had just returned from completing her
education in Boston, wanted to kiss her lover, but her mother objected.
The daughter drew up her queenly form to its full height, and exclaimed,
“Mother, terrible, tragical, and sublimely retributive will be the course
pursued by me, if you refuse to allow him to place his alabaster lips to
mine, and enrapture my immortal soul by imprinting angelic sensations
of divine bliss upon the indispensable members of my human physiognomy,
and then kindly allowing me to take a withdrawal from his beneficent
presence.” The mother feebly admitted that her objections were overruled.

       *       *       *       *       *

_Mabel._ “Yes! that young man is very fond of kissing.”

_Mater._ “Mabel, who ever told you such nonsense?”

_Mabel._ “I had it from his own lips!”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Yale student, who is evidently in the “journalistic” department, writes
a twelve-verse poem which is entitled, “We kissed each other by the sea.”
“Well, what of it?” asks a Western journalist: “the seaside is no better
for such practices than any other locality. In fact, we have put in some
very sweet work of that kind on the tow-path of a canal in our time, but
did not say anything about it in print.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The tender young poet who began, “I kissed her under the silent stars,”
and whom the newspaper to which he sent the poem represented as
beginning, “I kicked her under the cellar-stairs,” appeared before the
editors and publishers assembled in convention at Lockport, New York, and
preferred the request that the name of the room from which typographical
errors emanate might be changed forthwith. He wants it called the
discomposing room.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young lady of Atlanta says there is no woman living who could
interest her with a lecture on “kisses.” She says that she can get more
satisfaction from the lips of a young man, on a moonlight night, than a
woman could tell in a thousand years. That young lady is posted.

       *       *       *       *       *

A teacher in De Witt County has introduced a new feature in his school.
When one of the girls misses a word, the boy who spells it gets
permission to kiss her. The result is that the girls are fast forgetting
what they ever knew about spelling, while the boys are improving with
wonderful rapidity.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Gracious heavens!” exclaimed Mrs. Marrowfat, dropping the paper from
her nerveless grasp, and leaning back in her chair with an expression
of blank astonishment on her countenance, “Gracious heavens, Miltiades,
what a ‘paroxysmal kiss’?” Mr. Marrowfat, assuming a very serious
aspect, observed, “A ‘paroxysmal kiss,’ my love, is a kiss buttered with
soul-lightning.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Ma, has aunty got bees in her mouth?” “No; why do you ask such a
question?” “’Cause that leetle man with a heap o’ hair on his face
cotched hold of her, and said he was going to take the honey from her
lips; and she said, ‘Well, make haste!’”

       *       *       *       *       *

A young lady who was rebuked by her mother for kissing her intended
justified the act by quoting the passage, “Whatsoever ye would that men
should do unto you, do ye even so to them.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A married man in New Hampshire is said to have adopted an original method
of economy. One morning, recently, when he knew his wife would see him,
he kissed the servant-girl. The house-expenses were instantly reduced
three hundred dollars per year.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Kissing your sweetheart,” says a trifling young man, “is like eating
soup with a fork: it takes a long time to get enough.”

       *       *       *       *       *

  I saw Esau kissing Kate,
  And the fact is we all three saw;
  For I saw Esau, he saw me,
  And she saw I saw Esau.

       *       *       *       *       *

Bus—to kiss. Re-bus—to kiss again. Blunderbus—two girls kissing each
other. Omnibus—to kiss all the girls in the room. Bus-ter—a general
kisser. E pluri-bus unum—a thousand kisses in one.

       *       *       *       *       *

An editor defines a blunderbuss as kissing the wrong girl,—just as though
it were possible to be wrong in kissing any girl. A blunderbuss is for
men to kiss one another, as Frenchmen do, or for girls to kiss one
another, as they often do for want of a man to kiss them.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young fellow in San Francisco suddenly snatched a kiss from a lady
friend, and excused his conduct by saying that it was a sort of temporary
insanity that now and then came upon him. When he arose to take his leave
the pitying damsel said to him, “If you ever feel any more such fits
coming on, you had better come right here, where your infirmity is known,
and we will take care of you.”

       *       *       *       *       *

This story is told of an English barrister on his travels. As the coach
was about to start after breakfast, the modest limb of the law approached
the landlady, a pretty Quakeress, who was seated near the fire, and said
he could not think of going without first giving her a kiss. “Friend,”
said she, “thee must not do it.” “Oh, by heavens, I will!” replied the
barrister. “Well, friend, as thou hast sworn, thee may do it; but thee
must not make a practice of it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Here is an episode from a Palais Royal farce. A. is making love to C.,
who is B.’s wife, and scents B.’s coat with musk. A. is on the point of
kissing C., when he smells mischief in the air. She waits, expectant of
the embrace; he turns up his nose, snuffs, and changes the tone of his
remark. Tableaux!

       *       *       *       *       *

The electrical kiss is performed by means of the electrical stool. Let
a lady challenge a gentleman not acquainted with the experiment to give
her a salute. The lady thereupon mounts the glass stool, taking hold of
the chain connected with the prime conductor. The machine then being set
in motion, the gentleman approaches the lady and attempts to imprint the
seal of affection upon her coral lips, when a spark will fly in his face
which effectually checkmates his intentions.

       *       *       *       *       *

Some of the young men who go to see the girls have adopted a new way of
obtaining kisses. They assert, on the authority of scientific writers,
that the concussion produced by a kiss will cause the flame of a gas-jet
to flicker, and they easily induce the girls to experiment in the
interest of science. At the first kiss or two the parties watch the flame
to see it flicker, but they soon become so interested in the experiments
as to let It flicker if it wants to. Try it yourself.

       *       *       *       *       *

Nilsson is not above resorting to the little tricks of the stage, when
she thinks they will serve her purpose. A correspondent of the “Arcadian”
says, “One night, at the ‘Italiens’ in Paris, she actually sent a man up
to the top proscenium-box with a quantity of common wall-flowers, which
he was to throw down upon the stage at a given moment. Imagine what a
lovely scene this produced. How sweet and simple was this tribute of the
poor to the august Diva! How pretty it was to see her pick up the common
wall-flowers and kiss them, and then lift her eyes up to the gallery in
sign of eternal gratitude to the gods!”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Mary, why did you kiss your hand to the gentleman opposite, this
morning?” said a careful mother to her blooming daughter. “Why, the
gentleman had the impudence to throw a kiss clear across the street, and,
of course, I threw it back indignantly! You wouldn’t have encouraged him
by keeping it, would you?”

       *       *       *       *       *

A beautiful girl stepped into a shop to buy a pair of mittens. “How much
are they?” said she. “Why,” said the gallant but impudent clerk, lost in
gazing upon the sparkling eyes and ruby lips, “you shall have them for a
kiss.” “Very well,” said the lady, pocketing the mittens, while her eyes
spoke daggers; “and, as I see you give credit here, charge it on your
books, and let me know when you collect it.” And she very hastily tripped
out.

       *       *       *       *       *

A lady residing in Lansingburg hailed a passing car, with her little son,
to see him safely on the horse-car for a trip to Troy. He stepped on
board and scrambled for the front of the car. As he was going, his mother
said, “Why, aren’t you going to kiss your mother before you go?” The
little fellow was so delighted at the prospect of a ride, and in such a
hurry, that he hastily rejoined, looking back excitedly, “Mr. Conductor,
won’t you kiss mother for me?” And of course the passengers couldn’t keep
from smiling.

       *       *       *       *       *

“My dear,” said an affectionate wife, “what shall we have for dinner
to-day?” “One of your smiles,” replied the husband; “I can dine on that
every day.” “But I can’t,” replied the wife. “Then take this,” and he
gave her a kiss, and went to his business. He returned to dinner. “This
is excellent steak,” said he: “what did you pay for it?” “Why, what you
gave me this morning, to be sure,” replied the wife. “You did!” exclaimed
he; “then you shall have the money next time you go to market.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The author of the old comedy called “The Kiss” sent a copy, as soon as
published, to a young lady, informing her that he had been wishing for
several months for the opportunity of _giving her a kiss_.

       *       *       *       *       *

Joseph II., Emperor of Germany, during a visit to Rome, went to see the
princess Santacroce, a young lady of singular beauty, who had an evening
_conversazione_. Next morning appeared the following pasquinade: “Pasquin
asks, ‘What is the Emperor Joseph come to Rome for?’ Marforio answers,
‘Abaciar la Santa Croce’”—to kiss the Holy Cross.

       *       *       *       *       *

When the court of France waited upon the king on the birth of the Duke
of Burgundy, all were welcomed to kiss the royal hand. The Marquis of
Spinola, in the ardor of respect, bit his majesty’s finger, on which the
king started, when Spinola begged pardon, and said in his defence that if
he had not done so his majesty would not have noticed him.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Our professor does wonderful things in surgery,” said a young medical
student: “he has actually made a new lip for a boy, taken from his
cheek.” “Ah, well,” said his old aunt, “many’s the time I have known a
pair taken from mine, and no very painful operation either.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An engaged young gentleman got rather neatly out of a scrape with his
intended. She taxed him with having kissed two young ladies at some
party at which she was not present. He owned it, but said that their
united ages only made twenty-one. The simple-minded girl thought of ten
and eleven, and laughed off her pout. He did not explain that one was
nineteen and the other two years of age! Wasn’t it artful? Just like the
men!

       *       *       *       *       *

“Pray, Miss Primrose, do you like steamboats?” inquired a gentleman of
a fair friend to whom he was paying his addresses. “Oh! pretty well,”
replied the lady; “but I’m exceedingly fond of a smack.” The lover took
the hint, and impressed a chaste salute on the lips of the blushing
damsel.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Yes, you may come again next Sunday evening, Horace dear, but”—and she
hesitated. “What is it, darling? Have I given you pain?” he asked, as she
still remained silent. “You didn’t mean to, I’m sure,” she responded,
“but next time please don’t wear one of those collars with the points
turning outward; they scratch so.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Come, my little fellow,” said a Washington gentleman to a youngster
of five years while sitting in a parlor where a large company were
assembled, “do you know me?” “Yeth, thir!” “Who am I? Let me hear.” “You
ith the man who kithed mamma when papa wath in New York.” Correct.

       *       *       *       *       *

Little Katie, standing on a chair before a mirror, and holding her
mother’s elegant hat upon her head, remarks to her father, who is sitting
_tête-à-tête_ with her mother, “Oh, papa, now I know why mamma gets so
many kisses from your cousin Tom; it’s because of the pretty hat she
wears. Don’t I look tempting, though?”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Milwaukee man hid in a public door-way, and jumped out and kissed his
wife. She didn’t whoop and yell, as he expected, but remarked, “Don’t be
so bold, mister: folks around here know me.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Mrs. Laing, an Omaha woman, glided softly up behind Kalakaua, King of the
Sandwich Islands, and—stole a kiss! But the joke of the thing is that the
Omaha wags passed off a good-looking negro for the king.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Binghamton girl offered to let a countryman kiss her for five cents.
“Gad,” exclaimed the bucolic youth, “that’s darn cheap, if a fellow only
had the money.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A New Orleans minister recently married a colored couple, and at the
conclusion of the ceremony remarked, “On such occasions as this it is
customary to kiss the bride, but in this case we will omit it.” To this
unclerical remark the indignant bridegroom very pertinently replied,
“On such an occasion as this it is customary to give the minister ten
dollars, but in this case we will omit it.”

       *       *       *       *       *

The accomplished Fitzwiggle propounded this conundrum to the lovely Miss
Sparrowgrass: “What would you be, dearest, if I should press the stamp
of love upon those sealing-wax lips?” “I,” responded the fairy-like
creature, “should be _stationery_.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Walt Whitman thus used the poetic license in his salute to the White
House bride, the daughter of President Grant, upon the occasion of her
marriage:

  “O youth and health! O sweet Missouri rose! O bonny bride!
  Yield thy red cheeks, thy lips to-day,
  Unto a nation’s loving kiss.”

It was considered, doubtful whether such wholesale osculation would be
satisfactory. Yet, at the same time, the gifted actress, Clara Morris,
upon meeting with an enthusiastic reception in Cleveland, her home,
concluded a speech of grateful appreciation with the tantalizing wish
that Cleveland “had but one mouth, that she might kiss it.”[29]

       *       *       *       *       *

A party of ladies and gentlemen, on a tour of inspection through Durham
Castle, were escorted by an elderly female of a sour, solemn, and
dignified aspect. In the course of their peregrinations they came to the
tapestry for which the castle is famed. “These,” said the guide, in true
showman style, flavored with a dash of piety to suit the subject, and
pointing to several groups of figures upon the tapestry, “these represent
scenes in the life of Jacob.” “Oh, yes,—how pretty!” said a young lady;
and, with a laugh, pointing to two figures in somewhat close proximity,
she continued, “I suppose that is Jacob kissing Rachel?” “No, madam,”
responded the indignant guide, with crushing dignity, “that is _Jacob
wrestling with the angel_.” Amid a general smile the young lady subsided,
and offered no further expository remarks, but groaned under a sense of
unworthiness during the rest of the visit.

       *       *       *       *       *

A Carson (California) editor thus speaks of “Climatic Influences:”

Last evening, after the dusky shadows of night had cast a mantle over
this part of the mundane sphere, we strolled out upon one of Carson’s
beautifully shaded avenues for a walk. While pondering upon the
uncertainty of everything human, we came suddenly upon two persons, both
of whom were not of the same gender, standing one upon either side of a
gate, which seemed to require a pressure of forty pounds to the square
inch to keep it from falling; but, strange to say, it remained upright
when they separated at our approach. Further on we came in sight of a
kind young man who was assisting a poor lame girl with his arm around her
waist. Not wishing to investigate the matter further, we turned into the
next cross-street, but had not proceeded more than a block when we heard
a sweet voice exclaim:

“Ed, if you kiss me again, I’ll call ma.”

Thinking how such things could be, we returned to our sanctum, where
reference to the “Chronicle” of yesterday explains it. It is all in the
climate, you know.

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. S. S. Cox, in his illustrations of American humor, refers to the
newspaper fashion of giving a comic account of a catastrophe, and then,
by a sudden and serious turn, leaving a suggestive hiatus, making a
conclusion which connects the premises. Among the examples given is this
one:

Mr. Jones was observed by his wife through the window to kiss the cook in
the kitchen. Comment: “Mr. Jones did not go out of the house for several
days, and yet there was no snow-storm.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“I say, Mr. Smithers,” said Mrs. Smithers to her husband, “didn’t I hear
you down in the kitchen kissing the cook?” “My dear,” replied Smithers,
blandly, “permit me to insist upon my right to be reasonably ignorant.
I really cannot say what you may have heard.” “But wasn’t you down
there kissing the cook?” “My dear, I cannot really recollect. I only
remember going into the kitchen and coming out again. I may have been
there, and from what you say I infer I was. But I cannot recollect just
what occurred.” “But,” persisted the ruthless cross-examiner, “what
did Jane mean when she said, ‘Oh! Smithers, don’t kiss so loud, or the
old she-dragon up-stairs will hear us’?” “Well,” said Smithers, in his
blandest tones, “I cannot remember what interpretation I did put on the
words at the time. They are not my words, you must remember.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Milwaukee chap kissed his girl forty times right straight along, and
when he stopped the tears came into her eyes, and she said, in a sad tone
of voice, “Ah, John, I fear you have ceased to love me.” “No, I haven’t,”
replied John, “but I must breathe.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A new design for an upholstered front gate seems destined to become
popular. The foot-board is cushioned, and there is a warm soap-stone on
each side, the inside step being adjustable, so that a short girl can
bring her lips to the line of any given moustache without trouble. If the
gate is occupied at half-past ten P.M., an iron hand extends from one
gate-post, takes the young man by the left ear, turns him around, and he
is at once started home by a steel foot.

       *       *       *       *       *

A man who has been travelling in the “far West” says that when an Idaho
girl is kissed, she indignantly exclaims, “Now put that right back where
you took it from!”

       *       *       *       *       *

At a recent wedding in Ohio, the minister was about to salute the bride,
when she stayed him with, “No, mister, I give up them wanities now.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A Maryland editor, on the subject of kissing, says, “The custom is an
old one, and no _written_ description can do it justice; to be fully
understood and appreciated it must be handed down from mouth to mouth.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Stay,” he said, his right arm around her waist and her face expectantly
turned to him, “shall it be the kiss pathetic, sympathetic, graphic,
paragraphic, Oriental, intellectual, paroxysmal, quick and dismal, slow
and unctuous, long and tedious, devotional, or what?” She said perhaps
that would be the better way.

       *       *       *       *       *

Reference having been made to the basial diversities mentioned in the
Bible, it was incidentally remarked that there is another kind of kiss
which young ladies receive on the sofa in the parlor after the gas is
turned low, which the Scriptures don’t mention,—nor the young ladies
either.

       *       *       *       *       *

An Indiana editor advises people against using a hard pencil, and goes on
to tell why. His wife desired him to write a note to a lady, inviting her
to meet a party of friends at her house. After “Hubby” had done as his
wife desired, and started to post the note, she saw on another piece of
paper an impression of what he had written. It was:

“Sweet Mattie—Effie desires your company on Wednesday, to meet the
Smithsons. Don’t fail to come; and, my darling, I shall have the
happiness of a long walk home with you, and a sweet good-night kiss. I
dare not see you often, or my all-consuming love would betray us both.
But, Mattie dear, don’t fail to come.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Harriet McEwen Kimball is responsible for this description of a
paroxysmal kiss:

  “Only the roses will hear;
            Dear,
  Only the roses will see!
  This once—just this!
  Ah, the roses, I wis,
            They envy me!”

That kiss was clearly _sub rosa_.

       *       *       *       *       *

The incongruities in the repetitious mode of singing hymns are shown in
such illustrations as these: “Send down salvation from on high” became
“Send down sal-.” A soprano in one case sang “Oh for a man,” and the
chorus responded, “Oh for a mansion in the skies.” In another case the
soprano modestly sang, “Teach me to kiss;” the alto took up the strain,
“Teach me to kiss;” while the bass rendered it quite prosaic by singing,
“Teach me to kiss the rod.”

       *       *       *       *       *

“Punch” publishes the following from its sensational reporter: An
appalling tragedy in domestic life has lately scattered consternation in
the neighborhood of Bayswater. A newly-married couple, in possession of
ample fortune, and moving, it is rumored, in extremely good society, had
been observed to live together upon very loving terms, and no suspicion
as to their affection was entertained among their friends. It appears,
however, that on Monday morning last the young husband left his wife in
considerable agitation, having, as he alleged, some business in the city.
It has since transpired that he had previously secured himself a stall at
Drury Lane for Salvini in “Othello;” and there seems reason to believe
that the tragical event which subsequently happened was first suggested
to his mind by this most masterly performance. It was noticed by the
footman that he did not return until a few minutes before his usual
dinner-hour, when, rushing in abruptly, without one word of warning, he
proceeded to the bed-chamber where his wife was in the act of dressing
for the evening, and before her startled maid could even scream for
help, he caught his wife up in his arms in a frenzy of excitement and
deliberately proceeded to smother her—with kisses!

       *       *       *       *       *

In that very amusing sketch, “Johnny Beedle’s Courtship,” occurs the
following droll scene:

“It is a good sign to find a girl sulky. I knew where the shoe pinched:
it was that ’are Patty Bean business. So I went to work to persuade her
that I had never had any notion after Patty, and, to prove it, I fell to
running her down at a great rate. Sally could not help chiming in with
me; and I rather guess Miss Patty suffered a few. I now not only got hold
of her hand without opposition, but managed to slip my arm round her
waist. But there was no satisfying me; so I must go to poking out my lips
after a kiss. I guess I rued it. She fetched me a slap in the face that
made me see stars, and my ears rung like a brass kettle for a quarter of
an hour. I was forced to laugh at the joke, though out of the wrong side
of my mouth, which gave my face something the look of a gridiron. The
battle now began in the regular way.

“‘Come, Sally, give me a kiss, and ha’ done with it now?’

“‘I won’t! so there, you’—

“‘I’ll take it, whether or no.’

“‘Do it, if you dare!’

“And at it we went, rough and tumble. An odd destruction of starch now
commenced; the bow of my cravat was squat up in half a shake. At the
next bout, smash went shirt-collar; and at the same time some of the
head-fastenings gave way, and down came Sally’s hair in a flood like a
mill-dam let loose, carrying away half a dozen combs. One dig of Sally’s
elbow, and my blooming ruffles wilted down to a dish-cloth. But she had
no time to boast. Soon her neck-tackling began to shiver; it parted at
the throat, and away came a lot of blue and white beads, scampering and
running races every which way about the floor.

“By the hookey, if Sally Jones is not real grit, there is no snakes. She
fought fair, however, I must own, and neither tried to bite or scratch;
and when she could fight no longer she yielded handsomely. Her arms fell
down by her sides, her head back over her chair, her eyes closed, and
there lay her plump little mouth, all in the air. Lord, did ye ever see a
hawk pounce upon a young robin, or a bumble-bee upon a clover-top? I say
nothing.

“Consarn it, how a buss will crack of a still frosty night! Mrs. Jones
was about half-way between asleep and awake.

“‘There goes my yeast-bottle,’ says she to herself, ‘bust into twenty
hundred pieces, and my bread is all dough again.’”

       *       *       *       *       *

In “The Tour of Dr. Syntax,” Combe gives us the following amusing
passages:

  _Squire._ This, Doctor Syntax, is my sister;
  Why, my good sir, you have not kissed her.

  _Syntax._ Do not suppose I’m such a brute
  As to disdain the sweet salute.

  _Squire._ And this, sir, is my loving wife,
  The joy and honor of my life.

  _Syntax._ A lovely lady to the view!
  And with your leave, I’ll kiss her too.

  ...

  With heart of joy and look of woe,
  The Doctor now prepared to go;
  He silent squeezed the Squire’s hands,
  And asked of madam her commands.
  The Squire exclaimed, “Why so remiss?
  She bids you take a hearty kiss;
  And if you think that one won’t do,
  I beg, dear sir, you’ll give her _two_.”
  “Nay, then,” said Syntax, “you shall see!”
  And straight he gave the lady _three_.
  The lady, blushing, thanked him too,
  And in soft accents said, “Adieu.”


PRENTICEANA.

The following epigrammatic hits are from the pen of George D. Prentice,
the late distinguished editor of the “Louisville Journal”:

We once had a female correspondent who wrote, “When two hearts are
surcharged with love’s electricity, a kiss is the burning contact, the
wild leaping flame of love’s enthusiasm.” This is certainly very pretty,
but a flash of electricity is altogether too brief to give a correct
idea of a truly delicious kiss. We agree with Byron that the “strength”
of a kiss is generally “measured by its length.” Still, there should be
a _limit_, and we really think that Mrs. Browning, strong-minded woman
as she is, transcends all reasonable limits in her notion of a kiss’s
duration. Why, she talks in her “Aurora Leigh” of a kiss

  “As long and silent as the ecstatic night.”

That indeed must be “linked sweetness” altogether too “long drawn out.”

       *       *       *       *       *

An exchange says that we have a right to take an umbrella or a kiss
without permission whenever we can. Well, but if the umbrella isn’t
returned the fault is ours; if the kiss isn’t, it is the lady’s.

       *       *       *       *       *

Surely it is a blessed privilege to be kissed by the breeze that has
kissed all the pretty women in the world.

       *       *       *       *       *

“That’s very singular, sir,” said a young lady when we kissed her. “Ah,
well, we’ll soon make it plural.”

       *       *       *       *       *

As Claude R.’s wife sat quietly in the twilight, a fellow stole behind
her and kissed her. “Is it Claude?” she asked, hurriedly. “No, dear
madam.” A moment afterwards he was heard to exclaim, “Oh, yes, I am
_clawed_ now, indeed I am.”

       *       *       *       *       *

A female correspondent suggests a condition on which she will give us a
kiss. We feel in duty bound to say to her that kissing is a thing that,
at every proper opportunity, we set our face against.

       *       *       *       *       *

Last evening we chanced to see a pair of interesting lovers kissing at an
open lattice. Young people! that was very improper lattice-work.

       *       *       *       *       *

“Is the smoke of my cigarette unpleasant to you, sir?” “Oh, no, madam: I
would rather inhale smoke from your beautiful lips than taste kisses from
any others.”

       *       *       *       *       *

Return a kiss for a blow.—_Sunday-School Union._

Always provided the giver of the blow be a pretty girl.

       *       *       *       *       *

A beautiful young girl has just sent us a basket of fruit, the very sight
of which, she thinks, must make us smack our lips. We thank her, and
would greatly prefer smacking hers.

       *       *       *       *       *

A kiss on the forehead denotes respect and admiration; on the cheek,
friendship; on the lips, love. The young men of our acquaintance have not
much “respect” for young ladies.

       *       *       *       *       *

According to the New York “Express,” nine thousand ladies of that city
shook hands with Mr. Clay, and kissed him, or were kissed by him, in
the brief space of two hours. This was just seventy-five kisses to
the minute, or considerably more than one to the second. We are not
altogether sure that Mr. Clay, instead of kissing nine thousand girls in
two hours, would not have preferred to select the prettiest one of the
whole number and kiss _her_ two hours.

       *       *       *       *       *

If you doubt whether to kiss a pretty girl or not, give her the benefit
of the doubt.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young lady says that males are of no account from the time the ladies
stop kissing them as infants till they commence kissing them as lovers.

       *       *       *       *       *

We are never satisfied that a lady understands a kiss unless we have it
from her own mouth.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young lady’s first-love kiss has the same effect on her as being
electrified. It’s a great shock, but it’s soon over.

       *       *       *       *       *

A young physician asking permission of a lass to kiss her, she replied,
“No, sir; I never like a doctor’s bill stuck in my face.”




[Illustration]




MISCELLANEOUS ASPECTS AND RELATIONS.


QUALITATIVE ANALYSIS.

Kissing is not to be talked about; one practical demonstration is worth a
thousand prosaic descriptions. The emotions of anger, fear, doubt, hope,
and joy have been appropriately described; but no one has done justice to
a warm, loving kiss. Among the attempts which have been made is one by a
young lady still in the dreamy regions of girlhood. She sings,—

  “Let thy arms twine
  Around me like a zone of love,
  And thy fond lip, so soft,
  To mine be passionately pressed,
  As it has been so oft.”

This is cold enough, surely. Here is something better; the heart has made
advances and speaks from experience:

                “Sweetest love,
  Place thy dear arm beneath my drooping head,
  And let me lowly nestle in thy heart;
  Then turn those soul-lit orbs on me, and press
  My panting lips, to taste the ecstasy
  Imparted by each long and lingering kiss.”

Alexander Smith seems to have been electrified by a kiss; one made him
feel as if he were “walking on thrones,”—a figure quite as remarkable as
the old deacon’s, who, upon taking too much apple-brandy, likened his
sensations to being on top of a meeting-house and having every shingle
turned into a Jew’s-harp. But let us hear Alexander:

  “My soul leaped up beneath thy timid kiss,
    What then to me were groans,
  Or pain, or death? Earth was a round of bliss,
    I seemed to walk on thrones!”


THE PHILOSOPHY OF KISSING.

What’s in a kiss? Really, when people come to reflect upon the matter
calmly, what can we see in a kiss? The lips pout slightly and touch the
cheek softly, and then they just part, and the job is complete. There is
a kiss in the abstract! View it in the abstract, take it as it stands,
look at it philosophically, what is there in it? Millions upon millions
of souls have been made happy, while millions upon millions have been
plunged into misery and despair, by this kissing; and yet when you look
at the character of the thing, it is simply pouting and parting of the
lips. In every grade of society there is kissing. Go where you will,—to
what country you will,—you are perfectly sure to find kissing. There is,
however, some mysterious virtue in a kiss, after all.

  There’s something in a kiss;
    If nothing else would prove it,
  It might be proved by this:
    All honest people love it.


THE SCIENCE OF KISSING.

People will kiss, though not one in a hundred knows how to extract bliss
from lovely lips, any more than they know how to make diamonds from
charcoal; yet it is easy enough, at least for us. First know whom you
are going to kiss; don’t make a mistake, although a mistake may be good.
Don’t jump up like a trout for a fly and smack a woman on the neck, or
the ear, or the corner of her forehead, or on the end of her nose. The
gentleman should be a little the taller; he should have a clean face, a
kind eye, and a mouth full of expression. Don’t kiss everybody; don’t
sit down to it; stand up; need not be anxious about getting in a crowd.
Two persons are plenty to corner and catch a kiss; more persons would
spoil the sport. Take the left hand of the lady in your right; let your
hat go to—any place out of the way; throw the left hand gently over the
shoulder of the lady and let it fall down the right side. Do not be in
a hurry; draw her gently, lovingly, to your heart. Her head will fall
submissively on your shoulder, and a handsome shoulder-strap it makes.
Do not be in a hurry. Her left hand is in your right; let there be an
impression to that, not like the gripe of a vice, but a gentle clasp,
full of electricity, thought, and respect. Do not be in a hurry. Her head
lies carelessly on your shoulder; you are heart to heart. Look down into
her half-closed eyes; gently, but manfully, press her to your bosom.
Stand firm; be brave, but don’t be in a hurry. Her lips are almost open;
lean slightly forward with your head, not the body; take good aim; the
lips meet; the eyes close; the heart opens; the soul rides the storms,
troubles, and sorrows of life (don’t be in a hurry); heaven opens before
you; the world shoots under your feet as a meteor flashes across the
evening sky (don’t be afraid); the heart forgets its bitterness, and the
art of kissing is learned! No fuss, no noise, no fluttering or squirming
like that of hook-impaled worms. Kissing doesn’t hurt, nor does it
require an act of Congress to make it legal.

That reverend wag, Sydney Smith, says, “We are in favor of a certain
amount of shyness when a kiss is proposed; but it should not be too long,
and, when the fair one gives it, let it be administered with warmth
and energy,—let there be soul in it. If she closes her eyes and sigh
immediately after it, the effect is greater. She should be careful not
to slobber a kiss, but give it as a humming-bird runs his bill into a
honeysuckle, deep but delicate. There is much virtue in a kiss when well
delivered. We have the memory of one we received in our youth, which
lasted us forty years, and we believe it will be one of the last things
we shall think of when we die.”


THE COMPOSITION OF A KISS.

  Cupid, if storying legends tell aright,
  Once framed a rich elixir of delight.
  A chalice o’er love-kindled flames he fixed,
  And in it nectar and ambrosia mixed;
  With these, the magic dews which evening brings,
  Brushed from the Idalian star by fairy wings,
  Each tender pledge of sacred faith he joined,
  Each gentler pleasure of the unspotted mind,—
  Day-dreams, whose tints with sportive brightness glow,
  And Hope, the blameless parasite of Woe.
  The eyeless chemist heard the process rise,
  The streamy chalice bubbled up in sighs,
  Sweet sounds transpired, as when the enamored dove
  Pours the soft murmuring of responsive love.
  The finished work might Envy vainly blame,
  And “Kisses” was the precious compound’s name.

                                              COLERIDGE.


THE SOUND OF A KISS.

A kiss is a difficult thing to describe on paper with only the
unyielding, unimpressible materials of pen and ink; but it has been
courageously attempted by a wag who had been at a wedding, “all of which
he saw, and part of which he was.” Having “seen it done and performed,
and heard the reverberation,” he describes a kiss as follows:

“This is the age of improvement, ladies and gentlemen; stand back and you
will see _a kiss on paper_. Don’t be incredulous. I will give you the
sound in types. Listen:

“When two pairs of affectionate lips are placed together to the intent of
osculation, the noise educed is something like to the ensuing,

                        _Epe-st’ weep’ st-e’ ee!_

and then the sound tapers off so softly and so musically that no letters
can do it justice.

“If any one thinks my description imperfect, let him surpass it if he
can, even with a pen made from a quill out of Cupid’s wing.”

Another writer describes the acoustic phenomena of the process in the
following stanzas:

  Men’s fancies have long been sore tasked
    Some simile meet to bestow
  On that which all figures of speech
    Never fail to fall vastly below.

  Of the magical power of the touch,
    And the odorous perfume distilled,
  Already there’s written so much
    That poetical books are now filled.

  But a thought rather novel occurs
    To my mind in regard to the sound:
  It is this,—that a kiss is just like
    The swell which in music is found.

  Beginning most gently at first,
    To the middle you gradually swell,
  Then softly reduce to the close,
    And, though luscious, take care not to dwell.

  This gradual ascent to the swell
    Prepares for the climax of bliss,
  And letting one down as he rose
    Will weaken a fall such as this.

  This provision of nature most wise
    I have studied, and sagely conclude
  ’Twas done by this scale of degrees
    Certain death from excess to elude.


THE DANGEROUS SIDE.


THE LEGAL VIEW.


POOR ENCOURAGEMENT.

An Iowa school-teacher was discharged for the offence of kissing a
female assistant. Whereupon a local paper inquired, “What inducement is
there for any person to exile himself to the country districts of Iowa
to direct the young idea in its musket-practice, if he is to be denied
the ordinary luxuries of every-day life? If a Platonic exercise in
osculation, occasionally, cannot be connived at, where are the mitigating
circumstances in the dreary life of a Western schoolmaster? We give it
up.”


KINDLY CAUTION.

A young fellow in a Western town was fined ten dollars for kissing a girl
against her will, and the following day the damsel sent him the amount
of his fine, with a note saying that the next time he kissed her he must
be less rough about it, and be careful to do it when her father was not
around.


RETALIATION.

The following colloquy occurred in an English divorce-case. Mr. Sergeant
Tindal, “He treated her very kindly, did he not?” Atkinson, “Oh, yes,
very; he kissed her several times.” Mr. Sergeant Tindal, “And how did she
treat him?” Atkinson, “Well, she retaliated.”


AN EXPENSIVE KISS.

An interesting suit for damages was tried in the Circuit Court of Sauk
County, Wisconsin. The title of the case was Helen Crager _vs._ The
Chicago and Northwestern Railroad Company. The facts are substantially as
follows. The plaintiff, who is a good-looking, interesting young lady,
twenty-one years of age, and a school-teacher, on the 6th of March, 1873,
bought a ticket of the company’s ticket-agent at Reedsburg, for Baraboo,
and took a seat in a passenger-car attached to a mixed train. When
within a few miles of her destination, the plaintiff, being at the time
alone with the conductor (the only other passenger and an employé of the
company having left the car), was caressed and kissed by the conductor.
There being nothing in the lady’s manner to induce such familiarity, the
ticket-puncher was, soon after the occurrence, arrested upon a charge of
assault and battery. He pleaded guilty, was fined twenty-five dollars
by the justice, and discharged by the company. The court ruled as a
matter of law that the company was liable for the plaintiff for actual
damage occasioned by the wrongful act of the conductor. The case was
well argued, and submitted to the jury, who returned a verdict for the
plaintiff, and assessed her damages at one thousand dollars.


TWENTY SHILLINGS FINE.

A noteworthy trial may be found among the proceedings of a Connecticut
court held at New Haven, May 1, 1660. In this case, the kisser was Jacob
M. Murline, and the kissee was Miss Sarah Tuttle. It was demonstrated
that Jacob “tooke up or tooke away her gloves. Sarah desired him to give
her the gloves, to which he answered he would do so if she would give
him a kysse, upon which they sat down together, his arme being about her
waiste, and her arme upon his shoulder or about his neck, and _he_ kyssed
her and _she_ kyssed him, or they kyssed one another, continuing in this
posture about half an hour.”

On examination, the amatory Jacob confusedly admitted that “he tooke her
by the hand, and they both sat down upon a chest, but whether his arme
were about her waiste, and her arme upon his shoulder or about his neck,
he knows not, for he never thought of it since till Mr. Raymond told him
of it at Mannatos, for which he was blamed, and told he had not layed it
to heart as he ought.” Jacob and Sarah were each fined twenty shillings.
So much for two centuries ago.


BREACH OF PROMISE.

Breach-of-promise trials are of frequent occurrence in the English
courts, and any contribution to the law of the subject is received with
interest. The English papers, therefore, comment with great relish upon
the definition of a marriage engagement given by Judge Neilson, of
Brooklyn, who, in a suit for money damages for blighted affections,
charged the jury that the “gleam of the eye and the conjunction of the
lips are overtures when they become frequent and protracted.” In the
face of such a decision he is a rash man who would say, in the words of
the song, “I know an eye both soft and bright,” and that variety of kiss
known as the “lingering” is positively interdicted to gentlemen who do
not mean business, or who are liable to a change of mind.


THE INGENUITY OF THIEVES.

When the Pope’s chamberlain, who was captured by Italian brigands, paid
fifty thousand francs as ransom-money to the leader of the band, the
sight of the money so transported him that he fell on his knees and
begged to kiss the hand of his captive before he departed. The prelate
stretched out his hand to him, forgetting that he wore a ring of great
value, which the scoundrel, as he kissed the hand, slyly slipped over the
finger and appropriated to himself.

This incident was more than paralleled by French dexterity in a case
which is thus reported by a Paris correspondent:

There is a pretty little creature who has bestowed upon herself the
cognomen of Diane de Bagatelle, with whom a well-known young viscount is
madly in love. Mlle. Diane is a very romantic young lady, with a taste
for the plays and novels of the younger Dumas, and especially for the
“Dame aux Camellias.” So she was not surprised when one day the card of
the Count de X——, the father of the viscount in question, was handed to
her, and an elegant elderly gentleman, faultlessly dressed, and with the
red ribbon of the Legion of Honor at his button-hole, was ushered into
her boudoir.

“My son loves Mademoiselle,” began the count, without further preface.

“I know it,” sighed Diane.

“He has——”

“A sister!” exclaimed the lady, remembering the interview between
Marguerite Gautier and the elder Duval.

“No, not a sister, but a cousin,—his cousin Blanche, to whom he has been
betrothed for years. She pines and weeps, and you, mademoiselle, you and
your fatal charms are the cause.”

“Alas!” sighed Diane, feeling herself Doche and Blanche Pierson rolled
into one and in real earnest.

“Your sensibility does you honor. Will you break with my son at once and
forever? And if two hundred thousand francs——”

“Two hundred thousand francs!”

“I will draw you a check at once.”

“Sir,” exclaimed the lady, “you have not made appeal to a callous heart.
I will make the sacrifice; I will give up Henri. You said, I think, two
hundred thousand?”

“I did. Blessings on you, my child!” exclaimed the count, fervently.
“Write the letter I shall dictate, and the check shall be yours.”

So down Diane sat, and penned the following epistle:

“Dear Henri, I love you no more. In fact, I never have loved you. I love
another. Farewell forever.

                                                                  “DIANE.”

The count took the letter, inspected it carefully, and placed it in his
pocket-book, from which he then drew a check for the amount named, which
he placed in the lady’s eager hands.

“Allow me, my child, to raise to my lips the gentle hand that has just
saved my son!” A kiss and a tear fell on the dainty hand together; it
was then released, and the aged nobleman departed. He had not been long
gone when Mlle. Diane discovered that her diamond ring, which was valued
at ten thousand francs, had disappeared from her finger; and further
investigations proved that her silverware and other articles of value
had also vanished. The pretended count was no other than a swindler of
the very worst type. The worst of the affair was that the scamp actually
mailed the letter of Mlle. Diane to the viscount, so that the lady found
herself minus an adorer as well as her valuables.


THE MEDICAL VIEW.


DON’T KISS THE BABY.

The promiscuous kissing of children is a pestilent practice. We use the
word advisedly, and it is mild for the occasion. Murderous would be the
proper word, did the kissers know the mischief they do. Yes, madam,
_murderous_; and we are speaking to you. Do you remember calling on your
dear friend Mrs. Brown the other day, with a strip of flannel round your
neck? And when little Flora came dancing into the room, didn’t you pounce
upon her demonstratively, call her a precious little pet, and kiss her?
Then you serenely proceeded to describe the dreadful sore throat that
kept you from prayer-meeting the night before. You had no designs on the
dear child’s life, we know; nevertheless, you killed her! Killed her as
surely as if you had fed her with strychnine or arsenic. Your caresses
were fatal.

Two or three days after, the little pet began to complain of a sore
throat too. The symptoms grew rapidly alarming; and when the doctor came,
the single word _diphtheria_ sufficed to explain them all. To-day a
little mound in Greenwood is the sole memento of your visit.

Of course the mother does not suspect, and would not dare to suspect, you
of any Instrumentality in her bereavement. She charges it to a mysterious
Providence. The doctor says nothing to disturb the delusion; that would
be impolitic, if not cruel: but to an outsider he is free to say that
the child’s death was due directly to your infernal stupidity. Those
are precisely the words: more forcible than elegant, it is true; but
who shall say, under the circumstances, that they are not justifiable?
Remember,

  “Evil is wrought by want of thought
    As well as by want of heart.”

It would be hard to tell how much of the prevalent sickness and mortality
from diphtheria is due to such want of thought. As a rule, adults have
the disease in so mild a form that they mistake it for a simple cold;
and, as a cold is not contagious, they think nothing of exposing others
to their breath or to the greater danger of labial contact. Taking into
consideration the well-established fact that diphtheria is usually if
not always communicated by the direct transplanting of the malignant
vegetation which causes the disease, the fact that there can be no more
certain means of bringing the contagion to its favorite soil than the act
of kissing, and the further fact that the custom of kissing children on
all occasions is all but universal, it is not surprising that, when the
disease is once imported into a community, it is very likely to become
epidemic.

It would be absurd to charge the spread of diphtheria entirely to the
practice of child-kissing. There are other modes of propagation: though
it is hard to conceive of any more directly suited to the spread of the
infection or more general in its operation. It stands to diphtheria in
about the same relation that promiscuous hand-shaking formerly did to the
itch.

It were better to avoid the practice. The children will not suffer if
they go unkissed; and their friends ought for their sake to forego the
luxury for a season. A single kiss has been known to infect a family; and
the most careful may be in condition to communicate the disease without
knowing it. Beware, then, of playing Judas, and let the babies alone.


EXCESSIVE GALLANTRY.

The late Marquis de Prades-Conti, ex-officer of the body-guard of Charles
X., died from the effects of what might be called an excess of gallantry.
He had never been ill a day, and retained all his activity in spite of
his eighty-two years, but in stooping to kiss the hand of the Dowager
Countess de la Rochepeon, who came to pay him a visit, he fell dead.


THE TREACHEROUS SIDE.


MADAME DE STAEL’S HYPOCRISY.

Coleridge was a man of violent prejudices, and had conceived an
insuperable aversion for France, of which he was not slow to boast. “I
hate,” he would say, “the hollowness of French principles; I hate the
republicanism of French politics; I hate the hostility of the French
people to revealed religion; I hate the artificiality of French cooking;
I hate the acidity of French wines; I hate the flimsiness of the French
language.” He would inveigh with equal acrimony against the unreality
and immorality of the French character of both sexes, especially of the
women; and in justification of his unmeasured invective, he related that
he was one day sitting _tête-à-tête_ with Madame de Staël in London,
when her man-servant entered the room and asked her if she would receive
Lady Davey. She raised her eyebrows and shrugged her shoulders, and
appeared to shudder with nausea as she turned to him and said, “Ah, ma
foi! ô, mon cher ami! ayez pitié de moi! Mais quoi faire? Cette vilaine
femme! Comme je la déteste! Elle est, vraiment, insupportable!” And then,
on her entry, she flung her arms around her, kissed her on both cheeks,
pressed her to her bosom, and told her that she was more than enchanted
to behold her.

But the query arises, have the French a monopoly of such conventional
duplicity? or may we find its counterpart nearer home?


A JUDAS KISS.

This time Sophronia was so much in earnest that she found it necessary
to bend forward in the carriage and give Bella a kiss. A Judas order of
kiss; for she thought, while she yet pressed Bella’s hand after giving
it, “Upon your own showing, you vain heartless girl, puffed up by the
doting folly of a dustman, I need have no relenting towards _you_.”

                                             DICKENS: _Our Mutual Friend_.


A WIFE’S INFIDELITY.

Heaven support thee, old man! thou hast to pass through the bitterest
trial which honor and affection can undergo,—household treason! When the
wife lifts high the blushless front, and brazens out her guilt; when
the child, with loud voice, throws off all control, and makes boast of
disobedience, man revolts at the audacity; his spirit arms against
his wrong; its face, at least, is bare; the blow, if sacrilegious, is
direct. But when mild words and soft kisses conceal the worst foe Fate
can arm,—when amidst the confidence of the heart starts up the form of
Perfidy,—when out from the reptile swells the fiend in its terror,—when
the breast on which man leaned for comfort has taken counsel to deceive
him,—when he learns that, day after day, the life entwined with his own
has been a lie and a stage mime,—he feels not the softness of grief, nor
the absorption of rage; it is mightier than grief, and more withering
than rage; it is a horror that appalls.

                                                BULWER-LYTTON: _Lucretia_.


ALGERINE REVENGE.

A tragic event occurred in a divorce court at Constantine, in Algeria.
The wife of Bel-Kassem appeared before the Cadi and demanded a divorce
from her husband on the ground that he had ill-treated her. In spite of
the strenuous opposition of the respondent, the Cadi gave judgment in
favor of the lady, who, triumphantly pronouncing the orthodox formula,
“I repudiate thee,” bounced out of the court. The custom of the country
wills that a defeated suitor kiss the judge upon the shoulder, to show
that he acknowledges the justice of his sentence. In accordance with this
usage, Bel-Kassem, in apparent submission, moved toward the Cadi. But as
he drew near him his manner suddenly changed. Dashing aside his burnous,
he sprang upon the unfortunate judge and drove his knife into his breast.
The murderer then threw down his weapon and surrendered himself to the
gendarmes, saying, quietly, “I have killed the Cadi because, according
to the Koran, a judge who gives an unjust sentence deserves to be put to
death.”


ALL FOR SHOW.

Little Antoinette, a lonely little girl, was glad to find any companions.
“Mamma kisses me on the promenade,” she told them, in her artless way.
“She never kisses me at home.”

                                                THACKERAY: _The Newcomes_.


THE KISS FULIGINOUS.

The Italian poet Francesco Gianni is the author of a remarkable sonnet,
in which the avenging kiss of the demons for the kiss of treason is given
with great power, following a no less powerful portraiture of Satan:

  “Poi fra le braccia si reco quel tristo,
  E con la bocca fumigante e neva
  Gli rese il bacio che avea dato al Cristo.”

[Then the malefactor threw himself into his arms, and with mouth black
and smoking—the kiss fuliginous—he gave back the kiss that he had given
to Christ.]


FABULLA.

Martial in his “Epigrams” (xii. 93) makes the following hit:

“Fabulla has found out a way to kiss her lover in the presence of her
husband. She has a little fool whom she kisses over and over again,
when the lover immediately seizes him while he is still wet with the
multitude of kisses, and sends him back forthwith, charged with his own,
to his smiling mistress. How much greater a fool is the husband than the
professed fool!”

Or, as Hay translates it:

  “My lady Modish doth this way devise
  To kiss her spark before her husband’s eyes:
  She slavers o’er her little boy with kisses,
  And the gallant receives the reeking blisses;
  Then to the little Cupid gives a smack,
  And to his laughing mother sends him back.
  But if the husband is this way beguiled,
  The husband is by much the greater child.”


WOMAN.

  Not she with traitorous kiss her Saviour stung,
  Not she denied him with unholy tongue;
  She, while apostles shrank, could danger brave,
  Last at his cross, and earliest at his grave.

                                         BARRETT.


THE DESCENT FROM THE TREE.

  With that she leaped into her lord’s embrace,
  With well-dissembled virtue in her face.
  He hugged her close, and kissed her o’er and o’er,
  Disturbed with doubts and jealousies no more;
  Both, pleased and blessed, renewed their mutual vows,
  A fruitful wife and a believing spouse.

                                POPE: _January and May_.


THE FALSE LADY.

  Thy girdle-knife was keen and bright,—
    The ribbons wondrous fine,—
  ’Tween every knot of them you knit,
    Of kisses I had nine.

  Fond Margaret! false Margaret!
    You kissed me, cheek and chin;
  Yet, when I slept, that girdle-knife
    You sheathed my heart’s blood in.

                           _Old Ballad._


THE CONSPIRACY AGAINST EDWARD II.

  Edward, this Mortimer aims at thy life:
  Oh, fly him, then! But, Edmund, calm this rage;
  Dissemble, or thou diest; for Mortimer
  And Isabel do kiss while they conspire:
  And yet she bears a face of love, forsooth!
  Fie on that love that hatcheth death and hate!

                                        MARLOWE.


PERJURY.

            Sworn on every slight pretence,
  Till perjuries are common as bad pence,
  While thousands, careless of the damning sin,
  Kiss the book’s outside who ne’er look within.

                         COWPER: _Expostulation_.


LADY BOTHWELL’S LAMENT.

  Fareweil, fareweil, thou falsest youth
  That evir kist a woman’s mouth!
  I wish all maides be warned by mee
  Nevir to trust man’s curtesy;
  For if we doe bot chance to bow,
  They’le use us then they care not how.

                         _Scottish Song._


THE GAY DECEIVER.

  Trust him not; his words, though sweet,
  Seldom with his heart do meet.
  All his practice is deceit;
  Every gift it is a bait;
  Not a kiss but poison bears;
  And most treason in his tears.

        BEN JONSON: _Hue and Cry after Cupid_.


THE LURES OF THE ENCHANTRESS.

  She shroudeth vice in virtue’s veil,
    Pretending good in ill;
  She offereth joy, but bringeth grief;
    A kiss—where she doth kill.

                             SOUTHWELL.


CUPID’S WILES.

  Let not his tears thy easiness beguile,
  Nor let him circumvent thee with a smile;
  If he to kiss thee ask, his kisses fly;
  Poison of asps between his lips doth lie.

                                  ANACREON.


ARTIFICE.

  _Amarillis._ Here, take thy Amoret; embrace, and kiss!

  _Perigot._ What means my love?

  _Amarillis._ To do as lovers should,
  That are to be enjoyed, not to be wooed.
  There’s ne’er a shepherdess in all the plain
  Can kiss thee with more art; there’s none can feign
  More wanton tricks.

                        FLETCHER: _Faithful Shepherdess_.


THE SORROWFUL SIDE.


MARGARET.

The admirers of Goethe’s immortal tragedy “Faust” will remember the
passage in which poor Margaret says to her lover:

  Kiss me?—canst no longer do it?
  My friend, so short a time thou’rt missing,
  And hast unlearned thy kissing?
  Why is my heart so anxious on thy breast?
  Where once a heaven thy glances did create me,
  A heaven thy loving words expressed,
  And thou didst kiss, as thou would suffocate me—
  Kiss me!
  Or I’ll kiss thee.
              (_She embraces him._)
  Ah, woe! thy lips are chill
  And still.
  How changed in fashion
  Thy passion!
  Who has done me this ill?

Nor can they forget the simple song in which, while seated at her
spinning-wheel, she gives utterance to her grief. The closing verses are
these:

  And the magic flow
    Of his talk, the bliss
  In the clasp of his hand,
    And, ah, his kiss!

  My peace is gone,
    My heart is sore;
  I never shall find it,
    Ah, nevermore!

  My bosom yearns
    For him alone;
  Ah! dared I clasp him,
    And hold, and own,

  And kiss his mouth
    To heart’s desire,
  And on his kisses
    At last expire!


THE WELCOME HOME.

  For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn,
    Or busy housewife ply her evening care;
  No children run to lisp their sire’s return,
    Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

                                    GRAY: _Elegy_.

Evidently the poet Gray had in his mind’s eye the following passage from
Lucretius:

  “Non domus accipiet te læta, neque uxor
  Optima, nec dulces occurrent oscula nati
  Præripere, et tacita pectus dulcedine tangent.”

[No joyous home shall receive thee, nor excellent wife, nor will any
dear children of thine run out to meet thee and vie with each other in
snatching kisses from thee, and raise a tumult of sweet but unutterable
affection in thy breast.]


AFTER THE BALL.

[The sisters return from the ball to their chamber, gayly laugh and chat
over the reminiscences of the night, lay aside “the robe of satin and
Brussels lace,” “comb out their braids and curls,” and as the fire goes
out, and the winter chill is gathering, they seek repose. “Curtained away
from the chilly night, after the revel is done,” they “float along in a
splendid dream,” which the poet recounts, and then addresses them thus:]

  Oh, Maud and Madge, dream on together,
    With never a pang of jealous fear!
  For, ere the bitter St. Agnes weather
            Shall whiten another year,

  Robed for the bridal, and robed for the tomb,
    Braided brown hair, and golden tress,
  There’ll be only one of you left for the bloom
            Of the bearded lips to press,—

  Only one for the bridal pearls,
    The robe of satin and Brussels lace,—
  Only one to blush through her curls
            At the sight of a lover’s face.

  Oh, beautiful Madge, in your bridal white,
    For you the revel has just begun;
  But for her who sleeps in your arms to-night,
            The revel of life is done!

  But, robed and crowned with your saintly bliss,
    Queen of heaven and bride of the sun,
  Oh, beautiful Maud, you’ll never miss
            The kisses another hath won!


AFTER THE WEDDING.

  All alone in my room, at last;
    I wonder how far they have travelled now?
  They’ll be very far when the night is past;
    And so would I, if I knew but how.
  How lovely she looked in her wreath and dress!
    She is queenlier far than the village girls;
  Those were roses, too, in the wreath, I guess—
    ’Twas they made the crimson amongst her curls.

  She’s good as beautiful, too, they say;
    Her heart is as gentle as any dove’s;
  She’ll be all that she can to him alway—
    Dear! I am tearing my new white gloves.
  How calm she is, with her saint-like face!
    Her eyes are violet—mine are blue;
  How careless I am with my mother’s lace!—
    Her hands are whiter, and softer, too.

  They’ve gone to the city beyond the hill,
    They must never come back to this place again!
  I’m almost afraid to be here so still;
    I wish it would thunder! and lighten! and rain!
  Oh, no! for some may not be abed,
    Some few, perhaps, may be out to-night;
  I hope that the moon will come instead,
    And heaven be starry, and earth all light.

  ’Tis only a summer that she’s been here—
    It’s been my home for seventeen years!—
  But her name is a testament far and near,
    And the poor have embalmed it in priceless tears.
  I remember the day when another came—
    There! at last, I have tied my hair—
  Her curls and mine were nearly the same,
    But hers are longer, and mine less fair.

  They’re going across the sea, I know,
    Across the ocean—will that be far?—
  Did I have my comb a moment ago?
    I seem to forget where my things all are.
  When ships are wrecked, do the people drown?
    Is there never a boat to save the crew?
  Poor ships! If ever my ship goes down,
    I’ll want a grave in the ocean, too.

  Good-night, good-night—it is striking one!—
    Good-night to bride, and good-night to groom.
  The light of my candle is almost done—
    I wish my bed was in mother’s room!
  How calm it looks in the midnight shade—
    Those curtains were hung there clean to-day:
  They’re all too white for me, I’m afraid:
    Perhaps I may soon be as white as they.

  Dark!—all dark!—for the light is dead.
    Father in heaven, may I have rest?
  One hour of sleep for my weary head—
    For this breaking heart in my poor, poor breast!
  For his sweet sake do I kneel and pray,
    O God! protect him from change and ill;
  And render her worthier every way,
    The older the purer, the lovelier still.

  There! I knew I was going to cry;—
    I have kept the tears in my soul too long:
  Oh! let me say it, or I shall die,—
    As heaven is witness, I mean no wrong.
  He never shall hear from this secret room,
    He never shall know in the after-years,
  How seventeen summers of happy bloom
    Fell dead, one night, in a moment of tears!

  I loved him more than she understands.
    For him I loaded my soul with truth;
  For him I am kneeling, with lifted hands,
    To lay at his feet my shattered youth!
  I love, I adore him, still the same!
    More than father, and mother, and life!
  My hope of hopes was to bear his name—
    My heaven of heavens to be his wife!

  His _wife_—oh, name which the angels breathe,
    Let it not crimson my cheek for shame—
  ’Tis her great glory that word to wreathe
    In the princely heart from whose blood it came.
  Oh, hush! again I behold them stand,
    As they stood to-night, by the chancel wall:
  I see him holding her white-gloved hand,
    I hear his voice in a whisper fall.

  I see the minister’s silver hair,
    I see him kneel at the altar-stone,
  I see him rise when the prayer is o’er,
    He has taken their hands and made them one.
  The fathers and mothers are standing near,
    The friends are pressing to kiss the bride;
  One of those kisses had birthplace here—
    The dew of her lips has not yet dried.

  His lips have touched hers before to-night—
    Then I have a grain of his to keep!
  This midnight blackness is flecked with light,
    Some angel is singing my soul to sleep.
  He knows full well why many a knave
    So close to his lady’s lips would swim—
  God only knows that the kiss I gave
    Was set in her mouth to give to him!

                                       W. L. KEESE.


THE BALLAD OF CHEVY-CHASE.

In this popular ballad, believed to have been written about the year
1600, occur these familiar stanzas:

  Next day did many widows come,
    Their husbands to bewail;
  They washed their wounds in brinish tears,
    But all would not prevail.

  Their bodies, bathed in purple blood,
    They bore with them away;
  They kissed them dead a thousand times,
    Ere they were clad in clay.


THE OLD LOVE.

  I met her; she was thin and old,
    She stooped, and trod with tottering feet;
  Her locks were gray that once were gold,
    Her voice was harsh that once was sweet;
  Her cheeks were sunken, and her eyes,
    Robbed of their girlish light of joy,
  Were dim: I felt a strange surprise
    That I had loved her when a boy.

  But yet a something in her air
    Restored me to my youthful prime:
  My heart grew young, and seemed to wear
    The impress of that long-lost time.
  I took her wilted hand in mine,
    Its touch awoke a ghost of joy;
  I kissed her with a reverent sigh,
    For I had loved her when a boy.


EARL MARCH’S DAUGHTER.

The earl, smitten with grief over his broken-hearted and dying Ellen, is
anxious to restore the lover he had exiled. But it is too late:

  In vain he weeps, in vain he sighs;
    Her cheek is cold as ashes;
  Nor love’s own kiss shall wake those eyes
    To lift their silken lashes.

                                   CAMPBELL.


THE KING OF FRANCE’S DAUGHTER.

  His pale lyppes, alas!
    Twenty times she kissed,
  And his face did wash
    With her trickling teares;
  Every gaping wound
    Tenderlye she pressed,
  And did wipe it round’
    With her golden haires.
  “Speake, faire love,” quoth shee,
  “Speake, faire prince, to mee;
    One sweete word of comfort give:
  Lift up thy deare eyes,
  Listen to my cryes,
    Thinke in what sad griefe I live.”
  All in vaine she sued,
  All in vaine she wooed;
    The prince’s life was fled and gone.

                      _Pepys Collection._


DYING INJUNCTION.

  When our dear parents died, they died together;
  One fate surprised them, and one grave received them.
  My father with his dying breath bequeathed
  Her to my love; my mother, as she lay
  Languishing by him, called me to her side,
  Took me in her fainting arms, wept, and embraced me;
  Then pressed me close, and, as she observed my tears,
  Kissed them away. Said she, Chamont, my son,
  By this, and all the love I ever showed thee,
  Be careful of Monimia, watch her youth,
  Let not her wants betray her to dishonor;
  Perhaps kind heaven may raise some friend; then sighed,
  Kissed me again; so blessed us, and expired.

                                          OTWAY: _Orphan_.


FAITHFUL UNTO DEATH.

  ’Tis she,—far off, through moonlight dim,
    He knew his own betrothèd bride,
  She who would rather die with him
    Than live to gain the world beside!

  Her arms are round her lover now,
    His livid cheek to hers she presses,
  And dips, to bind his burning brow,
    In the cool lake her loosened tresses.

  ...

  One struggle, and his pain is past,
    Her lover is no longer living!
  One kiss the maiden gives, one last,
    Long kiss, which she expires in giving!

                       MOORE: _Lalla Rookh_.


THE LAST OBSERVANCE.

  Oh, may I view thee with life’s parting ray,
    And thy dear hand with dying ardor press;
  Sure thou wilt weep, and on thy lover’s clay
    With breaking heart print many a tender kiss.
  ...
  On my cold lips thy kisses thou wouldst fix,
  While flowing tears with thy dear kisses mix.

                              TIBULLUS: _Elegy I._


THE EXILES.

  With louder plaints the mother spoke her woes,
  And blest the cot where every pleasure rose;
  And kissed her thoughtless babes with many a tear,
  And clasped them close, in sorrow doubly dear.

                       GOLDSMITH: _Deserted Village_.


“ORATE HIC PRO ME.”

  They went with speed to the dungeon-door;
    The air was chill and damp;
  And the pale girl lay on the marble floor,
    Beside the dying lamp;
  They kissed her lips, they called her name,
  No kiss returned, no answer came.
  Motionless, lifeless, there she lay,
  Like a statue rent from its base away.

                                       PRAED.


JEPHTHAH’S DAUGHTER.

  It comforts me in this one thought to dwell,
    That I subdued me to my father’s will;
  Because the kiss he gave me, ere I fell,
    Sweetens the spirit still.

               TENNYSON: _Dream of Fair Women_.


THE MAY QUEEN.

  I have been wild and wayward, but you’ll forgive me now;
  You’ll kiss me, my own mother, and forgive me ere I go;
  Nay, nay, you must not weep, nor let your grief be wild;
  You should not fret for me, mother, you have another child.

                                                    TENNYSON.


ENOCH ARDEN.

  My children, too! must I not speak to these?
  They know me not; I should betray myself.
  Never; no father’s kiss for me,—the girl
  So like her mother, and the boy, my son.

                                     TENNYSON.


ŒNONE.

  Oh, mother, hear me yet before I die!
  Hath he not sworn his love a thousand times,
  In this green valley, under this green hill,
  Ev’n on this hand, and sitting on this stone?
  Sealed it with kisses? watered it with tears?

                                      TENNYSON.


QUARREL AND RECONCILIATION.

  As through the land at eve we went,
    And plucked the ripened ears,
  We fell out, my wife and I,
  Oh, we fell out, I know not why,
    And kissed again with tears.

  For when we came where lies the child
    We lost in other years,
  There above the little grave,
  Oh, there above the little grave
    We kissed again with tears.

                    TENNYSON: _Princess_.


EVANGELINE.

  Vainly he strove to whisper her name, for the accents unuttered
  Died on his lips, and their motion revealed what his tongue would have
    spoken.
  Vainly he strove to rise; and Evangeline, kneeling beside him,
  Kissed his dying lips, and laid his head on her bosom.

                                                              LONGFELLOW.


OVER THE STARRY WAY.

  Gone to sleep with the tender smile
    Froze on her silent lips
  By the farewell kiss of the angel Death,
  Like the last fair bud of a faded wreath
    Whose bloom the white frost nips.


DEATH OF AN INFANT.

  Oh, fairest flower, no sooner blown but blasted,
  Soft silken primrose fading timelessly,
  Summer’s chief honor, if thou hadst outlasted
  Bleak Winter’s force that made thy blossom dry;
  For he being amorous on that lovely dye
  That did thy cheek envermeil, thought to kiss,
  But killed, alas, and then bewailed his fatal bliss.

                                               MILTON.


ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND’S CHILD.

                            If Death
  More near approaches, meditates, and clasps
  Even now some dearer, more reluctant hand,
  God, strengthen Thou my faith, that I may see
  That ’tis Thine angel, who, with loving haste,
  Unto the service of the inner shrine
  Doth waken Thy beloved with a kiss.

                                         LOWELL.


HIGHLAND MARY.

  Oh, pale, pale now, those rosy lips,
    I aft hae kissed sae fondly,
  And closed for aye the sparkling glance
    That dwelt on me sae kindly!

                                    BURNS.


CONSUMPTION.

  Oh, then, when the spirit is taking wing,
  How fondly her thoughts to her dear one cling,
  As if she would blend her soul with his
  In a deep and long-imprinted kiss!

                                       PERCIVAL.


BARBARA.

  Oh, that pallid face!
  Those sweet, earnest eyes of grace!
  When last I saw them, dearest, ’twas in another place;
  You came running forth to meet me, with my love-gift on your wrist,
  And a cursed river killed thee, aided by a murderous mist.
  Oh, a purple mark of agony was on the mouth I kissed
  When last I saw thee, Barbara!

                                                     ALEXANDER SMITH.


“I WANT TO FIND MY PAPA.”

A lady while walking in a city street met a little girl between two and
three years old, evidently lost, and crying bitterly. Taking her by the
hand, the lady asked her where she was going.

“I am going down town to find my papa,” was the reply, between sobs, of
the child.

“What is your papa’s name?” asked the lady.

“His name is papa,” replied the innocent little thing.

“But what is his other name?” queried the lady; “what does your mamma
call him?”

“She calls him papa,” persisted the baby.

The lady then took the little one by the hand and led her along, saying,—

“You had better come with me; I guess you came from this way.”

“Yes, but I don’t want to go back; I want to find my papa,” replied the
little girl, crying afresh as if her heart would break.

“What do you want of your papa?” asked the lady.

“I want to kiss him.”

Just then a sister of the child came along looking for her and led her
away. From subsequent inquiries, it appeared that the little one’s
papa, whom she was so earnestly in search of, had recently died. In her
lonesomeness and love for him, she tired of waiting for him to come
home, and had gone to find him and greet him with the accustomed kiss.


THE PENALTY OF HARSHNESS.

It seems a hard and cruel thing to make the affections of a child its
means of punishment for slight juvenile offences. A sad occurrence may be
quoted as evidence in point.

A little girl, who, although an affectionate little creature as ever
lived, was very volatile and light-hearted, could not always _remember_
to mind her mother. At the close of a winter day she had gone into the
street, contrary to her mother’s injunction, to play with one of her
little companions; when she came in, and was prepared to go to bed, she
approached her mother for her good-night kiss.

“I cannot kiss you to-night, Mary,” said the mother; “you have been
a very naughty little girl, and have disobeyed me. I cannot kiss you
to-night.”

The little girl, her face streaming with tears, again begged her mother
to kiss her; but she was a “strong-minded woman,” and was inexorable.

It was a sad lesson that she learned, for on that very night the child
died of croup. She had asked her mother, the last thing as she went up to
her little bed, if she would kiss her in the morning; but in the morning
her innocent lips were cold.


VIRGINIA.

Macaulay, in his “Lays of Ancient. Rome,” includes the tragic incident
which led to the downfall of the execrable government of Appius
Claudius, who had made an attempt upon the chastity of a beautiful young
girl of humble birth. The decemvir, unable to succeed by bribes and
solicitations, resorted to an outrageous act of tyranny. A vile dependant
of the Claudian house laid claim to the damsel as his slave. The cause
was brought before the tribunal of Appius. The wicked magistrate, in
defiance of the clearest proofs, gave judgment for the claimant; but the
girl’s father, a brave soldier, saved her from servitude and dishonor by
stabbing her to the heart in the sight of the whole forum. Virginius, in
the course of a thrilling appeal to the people, says,—

  “Have ye not graceful ladies, whose spotless lineage springs
  From consuls, and high pontiffs, and ancient Alban kings?
  Ladies who deign not on our paths to set their tender feet,
  Who from their cars look down with scorn upon the wondering street;
  Who in Corinthian mirrors their own proud smiles behold,
  And breathe of Capuan odors and shine with Spanish gold?
  Then leave the poor Plebeian his single tie to life,—
  The sweet, sweet love of daughter, of sister, and of wife,
  The gentle speech, the balm for all that his vexed soul endures,
  The kiss in which he half forgets even such a yoke as yours;
  Still let the maiden’s beauty swell the father’s breast with pride,
  Still let the bridegroom’s arms enfold an unpolluted bride;
  Spare us the inexpiable wrong, the unutterable shame,
  That turns the coward’s heart to steel, the sluggard’s blood to flame,
  Lest, when our latest hope is fled, ye taste of our despair,
  And learn by proof, in some wild hour, how much the wretched dare.”

Having led the devoted maiden to the spot for sacrifice, he pours out in
passionate language the wealth of his affection, closing thus:

  “With all his wit, he little deems that, spurned, betrayed, bereft,
  Thy father hath in his despair one fearful refuge left,
  He little deems that in this hand I clutch what still can save
  Thy gentle youth from taunts and blows, the portion of the slave;
  Yea, and from nameless evil that passeth taunt and blow,—
  Foul outrage which thou knowest not, which thou shalt never know.
  Then clasp me round the neck once more, and give me one more kiss,
  And now, mine own dear little girl, there is no way but this.’
  With that he lifted high the steel and smote her in the side,
  And in her blood she sank to earth, and with one sob she died.”


THE KISS IN EPIGRAM.


CASUISTRY.

  When Sarah Jane, the moral miss,
  Declares ’tis very wrong to kiss,
    I’ll bet a shilling I see through it:
  The damsel, fairly understood,
  Feels just as any Christian should,—
    She’d rather _suffer_ wrong than _do it_.

                                       SAXE.


THE DIFFERENCE.

  “I never give a kiss,” says Prue,
    “To naughty man, for I abhor it.”
  She will not _give_ a kiss, ’tis true:
    She’ll _take_ one, though, and thank you for it.[30]

                                              MOORE.


MODESTY.

  “Kiss me, dear maid, to seal the vow
  Of love that you have made.”
  “I have no _right_ to kiss you now,”
  The modest maiden said.

  “If you can find it in your heart
  My first wish to refuse,
  Perhaps ’tis best that we should part
  Ere we our freedom lose.”

  “Although to kiss _you_ I demur,
    Yet please to recollect
  That if you choose to kiss _me_, sir,
    Of course, I—can’t object.”


FOOLISH ROBIN.

  “Come kiss me,” said Robin. I gently said, “No!
  For my mother forbade me to play with men so.”
  Abashed by my answer, he glided away,
  Though my looks very plainly advised him to stay.
  Silly swain, not at all recollecting—not he—
  That _his_ mother ne’er said that he must not kiss _me_.


THE PRINTER’S KISSES.

  _Print_ on my lips another kiss,
    The picture of thy glowing passion;
  Nay, this won’t do—nor this—nor this—
    But now—Ah, that’s a _proof impression_!

  But yet, methinks, it might be mended—
    Oh, yes, I see it in those eyes;
  Our lips again together blended
    Will make the _impression_ a REVISE.


TULIPS AND ROSES.

  My Rosa from the latticed grove
    Brought me a sweet bouquet of posies,
  And asked, as round my neck she clung,
    If _tulips_ I preferred to _roses_.
  “I cannot tell, sweet wife,” I sighed,
    “But kiss me ere I see the posies:”
  She did. “Oh, I prefer,” I cried,
    “Your _two lips_ to a dozen roses.”


SEALING AN OATH.

  “Do you,” said Fanny, t’other day,
  “In earnest love me as you say?
  Or are those tender words applied
  Alike to fifty girls beside?”
  “Dear, cruel girl,” cried I, “forbear;
  For by those eyes—those _lips_—I swear!”
  She stopped me as the oath I took,
  And cried, “You’ve sworn—_now kiss the book_.”


MOUSTACHES.

  Kate hates moustaches; so much hair
  Makes every man look like a bear;
  But Nellie, whom no thought could fetter,
  Pouts out, “The more like bears the better,
  Because” (her pretty shoulders shrugging)
  “Bears are such glorious chaps for hugging.”


THE ANCIENT MAIDEN’S LAMENT.

  I have a mouth for kisses,
    No one to give or to take;
  I have a heart in my bosom
    Beating for nobody’s sake.


THE STAKES.

The following playful lines of Strode first appeared in a little
volume entitled “New Court Songs and Poems,” printed in 1672, and were
reproduced in Dryden’s “Miscellany,” 1716:

  My love and I for kisses played:
    She would hold stakes; I was content;
  But when I won, she would be paid;
    With that, I asked her what she meant.
  “Nay, since I see,” quoth she, “your wrangling vain,
    Take your own kisses; give me mine again.”[31]


DECLINING A KISS.

  Said the master to Mary, a sweet-lipped lass,
  As she stood in her place at the head of her class,
  “You can decline ‘a kiss,’ no doubt?”
  “I can,” she replied, with a blush and a pout,
  And a glance to the master’s heart there shot,
  “But, sir, if you please, I would rather not.”


EARLIEST RECOLLECTIONS.

  I recollect a nurse called Ann,
    Who carried me about the grass,
  And one fine day a nice young man
    Came up and kissed the pretty lass.
  She did not make the least objection!
                Thinks I, “Ah!
    When I can talk, I’ll tell mamma”—
  And that’s my earliest recollection.

                      FREDERICK LOCKER.


THE DISAPPOINTMENT.

  Old Birch, who taught a village school,
    Wedded a maid of homespun habit:
  He was as stubborn as a mule,
    And she was playful as a rabbit.
  Poor Kate had scarce become a wife,
    Before her husband sought to make her
  The pink of country polished life,
    And prim and formal as a Quaker.
  One day the tutor went abroad,
    And simple Katy sadly missed him:
  When he returned, behind her lord
    She slyly stole, and fondly kissed him.
  The husband’s anger rose, and red
    And white his face alternate grew.
  “Less freedom, ma’am!”[32] Kate sighed, and said,
    “_Oh, dear! I didn’t know ’twas you!_”


NON-COMPUTATION.

  Old Jealousy would count our blisses;
  Then give to me a thousand kisses,
  Quick kissing me—quick kissing thee—
  Oh, quick, oh, quick, the jade to trick!
  O Ada, kiss so many kisses,
  She, counting ever, ever misses.

                                  LESSING.


BIANCA’S DREAM.

  Meanwhile, remindful of the convent bars,
    Bianca did not watch these signs in vain,
  But turned to Julio at the dark eclipse,
  With words like verbal kisses on her lips.

  He took the hint full speedily, and, backed
    By love, and night, and the occasion’s meetness,
  Bestowed a something on her cheek that smacked
    (Though quite in silence) of ambrosial sweetness,—
  That made her think all other kisses lacked
    Till then, but what she knew not, of completeness:
  Being used but sisterly salutes to feel,
  Insipid things—like sandwiches of veal.

                                                 HOOD.


THE HONEY-MOON.

  Oh, happy, happy, thrice happy state,
  When such a bright planet governs the fate
      Of a pair of united lovers!
  ’Tis theirs, in spite of the serpent’s hiss,
  To enjoy the pure primeval kiss
  With as much of the old original bliss
      As mortality ever recovers.

                                         HOOD.


NO DOUBT OF IT.

  She felt my lips’ impassioned touch,—
  ’Twas the first time I dared so much;
        And yet she chid not,
  But whispered o’er my burning brow,
  “Oh! do you doubt I love you now?”
        Sweet soul! I did not.


A REBUS.

  “What is a rebus?” I asked of dear Mary,
  As close by my side the dear maiden was seated:
  I saw her eye droop and her countenance vary
    As she said in reply, “’Tis a kiss, sir, repeated.”


THE DIFFERENCE.

  My brother is shy,—I am not shy at all;
  So, when there’s a mistletoe hung in our hall,
  _He_ manages always to miss all the kisses,
  While _I_, on the contrary, kiss all the misses.


STOLEN KISSES.

  Kiss her gently, but be sly;
  Kiss her when there’s no one by;
  Steal your kiss, for then ’tis meetest—
  Stolen kisses are the sweetest.


THE REASON WHY.

An impertinent youth at Saratoga amused himself by exhibiting the
following lines to some of the ladies at a hotel:

  Men scorn to kiss among themselves,
    And scarce would kiss a brother;
  But women want to kiss so bad,
    They kiss and kiss each other.

Whereupon a young lady pencilled this retort on the back of an envelope,
and left it for the fool’s instruction:

  Men do not kiss among themselves,
    And it’s well that they refrain:
  The bitter dose would vex them so,
    They would never kiss again.

  As sometimes on poor woman’s lip
    Is applied this nauseous lotion,
  We _have_ to kiss among ourselves
    As a counteracting potion.


THE INVENTOR OF KISSING.

  When we dwell on the lips of the girl we adore,
    What pleasure in Nature is missing?
  May his soul be in heaven—he deserves it, I’m sure—
    Who was first the inventor of kissing.

  Master Adam, I verily think, was the man
    Whose discovery can ne’er be surpast;
  Then, since the sweet game with creation began,
    To the end of the world may it last.

                                              WOLCOT.


FORGIVENESS.

  Forgive thy foes; nor that alone;
    Their evil deeds with good repay;
  Fill those with joy who leave thee none,
    And kiss the hand upraised to slay.

  So does the fragrant sandal bow,
    In meek forgiveness, to its doom,
  And o’er the axe at every blow
    Sheds in abundance rich perfume.


THE RIGHTS OF MEN.

  While others, Delia, use their pen
  To vindicate the rights of men,
  Let us, more wise, to bliss attend:
  Be ours the rights which they defend.
  Those eyes that glow with love’s own fire,
  And what they speak so well inspire;
  That melting hand, that heaving breast,
  That rises only to be prest;
  That ivory neck, those lips of bliss
  Which half invite the offered kiss;
  These, these—and Love approves the plan—
  I deem the dearest rights of man.


TO A PAINTED LADY IN THE OLDEN TIME.

  Is’t for a grace, or is’t some dislike,
  Where others give ye lippe you give the cheeke;
  Some houlde it for a pride of your behaviour,
  But I do rather count it as a favour.
  Wherefore to shew my kindnesse and my love,
  I leave both lippes and cheekes, and kisse your glove.
  Now what’s the cause? To make you full acquainted,
  Your glove’s perfumed, your lippes and cheekes bepainted.


THE SOURCE ALIKE OF LIFE AND DEATH.

  Nature that gave the bee so feate a grace
    To find honey of so wondrous fashion,
  Hath taught the spyder out of the same place
    To fetch poyson by strange alteration,
  Though this be strange, it is a stranger case
    With one kiss, by a secret operation,
  Both these at once in those your lips to finde,
    In change whereof I leave my heart behinde.

                                SIR THOMAS WYATT.


ON A LADY STUNG BY A BEE.

  To heal the wound the bee had made
    Upon my Delia’s face,
  Its honey to the wound she laid,
    And bid me kiss the place.

  Pleased, I obeyed, and from the wound
    Sucked both the sweet and smart:
  The honey on my lips I found,
    The sting went through my heart.


THE KISS IN METAPHOR.


MORNING SONG.

  Speed, zephyr! kiss each opening flower,
    Its fragrant spirit make thine own,
  Then wing thy way to Rosa’s bower,’
    Ere her light sleep is flown.

  There, o’er her downy pillow fly,
    Wake the sweet maid to life and day:
  Breathe on her balmy lip a sigh,
    And o’er her bosom play.

                              MRS. HEMANS.


SUNRISE ON THE HILLS.

  I stood upon the hills, when heaven’s wide arch
  Was glorious with the sun’s returning march,
  And woods were brightened, and soft gales
  Went forth to kiss the sun-clad vales.

                                       LONGFELLOW.


SPRING.

  No icy fetters hold the stream;
    The sun’s bright beam
  Comes dancing o’er it to my feet;
  The violets that skirt the bank
    Bend down to thank
  The laughing stream with kisses sweet.


SPRING FLOWERS

  Spring has come with a smile of blessing,
    Kissing the earth with her soft warm breath,
  Till it blushes in flowers at her gentle caressing,
    And wakes from the winter’s dream of death.


THE VIOLETS.

  Close by the roots of moss-grown stumps,—
    The sweetest and the first to blow,—
  The blue-eyed violets, in clumps,
    Kiss one another as they grow;

  And, kissing one another, blend
    Their dewy tears upon the earth,
  And purest fragrance upward send,
    Unconscious types of modest worth!


SPRING SONG.

  When the soft winds blow,
  And kiss away the snow,—
  When the bluebirds sing,
  For the dear warm spring,—
  Then we’ll go a-Maying,
  Through the meadows straying.

                    ROSE TERRY.


AUTUMN.

  Morn on the mountain, like a summer bird,
  Lifts up her purple wing, and in the vales
  The gentle wind, a sweet and passionate wooer,
  Kisses the blushing leaf, and stirs up life
  Within the solemn woods of ash deep-crimsoned,
  And silver beech, and maple yellow-leaved.

                                     LONGFELLOW.


THE EVENING WIND.

  The faint old man shall lean his silver head
    To feel thee; thou shalt kiss the child asleep,
  And dry the moistened curls that overspread
    His temples, while his breathing grows more deep.

                                              BRYANT.


THE CRIMSON SUNSET.

  Fall on her, tell her dying glow,
  How I am dreaming of her here,
  And kiss for me her snowy brow;
  Love, I am weak with hope and fear,
    Thinking of thee.

                                HONE.


THE MOON-BEAM.

  The silver light, so pale and faint,
  Showed many a prophet, and many a saint,
    Whose image on the glass was dyed;
  Full in the midst, his cross of red
  Triumphant Michael brandishèd,
    And trampled the Apostate’s pride.
  The moon-beam kissed the holy pane,
  And threw on the pavement a bloody stain.

                                     SCOTT.


THE LIGHT FROM THE TOMB.

  No earthly flame blazed e’er so bright:
  It shone like heaven’s own blessed light,
    And, issuing from the tomb,
  Showed the monk’s cowl, and visage pale,
  Danced on the dark-browed warrior’s mail,
    And kissed his waving plume.

                                     SCOTT.


TIME AND TIDE.

                    The bridegroom sea
  Is toying with the shore, his wedded bride,
  And in the fulness of his marriage joy
  He decorates her tawny brow with shells,
  Retires a pace to see how fair she looks,
  Then, proud, runs up to kiss her.


THE LIGHT-HOUSE.

  It sees the ocean to its bosom clasp
    The rocks and sea-sand with the kiss of peace;
  It sees the wild winds lift it in their grasp,
    And hold it up, and shake it like a fleece.

                                       LONGFELLOW.


THE GROWING CORN.

  Then, like a column of Corinthian mould,
  The stalk struts upward and the leaves unfold;
  The bushy branches all the ridges fill,
  Entwine their arms, and kiss from hill to hill.

                                          BARLOW.


FROM THE PSALMS OF DAVID.

Mercy and truth are met together; righteousness and peace have kissed
each other.—lxxxv. 10.


PARAPHRASE.

In the book of Deuteronomy, ch. xxxiv. v. 5, occurs the sentence, “So
Moses, the servant of the Lord, died there in the land of Moab, according
to the word of the Lord.” The literal rendering of the last words is, “by
the _mouth_ of the Lord,” or, as the Hebrews express it, “with a kiss
from the mouth of God.” It is thus paraphrased by an old English poet:

  Softly his fainting head he lay
    Upon his Maker’s breast;
  His Maker kissed his soul away,
    And laid his flesh to rest.


TO CELIA.

  Drink to me only with thine eyes,
    And I will pledge with mine;
  Or leave a kiss but in the cup,
    And I’ll not look for wine.

                        BEN JONSON.


FROM ANACREON.

                  The shadowy grove,
  Where, in the tempting guise of love,
  Reclining sleeps some witching maid,
  Whose sunny charms, but half displayed,
  Blush through the bower, that, closely twined,
  Excludes the kisses of the wind.

                                        _Ode 59._


LOVE’S PHILOSOPHY.

  The fountains mingle with the river,
    And the rivers with the ocean,
  The winds of heaven mix forever
    With a sweet emotion;
  Nothing in the world is single;
    All things by a law divine
  In one another’s being mingle—
    Why not I with thine?

  See the mountains kiss high heaven,
    And the waves clasp one another;
  No sister flower would be forgiven
    If it disdained its brother:
  And the sunlight clasps the earth,
    And the moonbeams kiss the sea;
  What are all these kissings worth,
    If thou kiss not me?

                              SHELLEY.


FROM PLATO.

  Kissing Helena, together
  With my kiss, my soul beside it
  Came to my lips, and there I kept it,—
  For the poor thing had wandered thither,
  To follow where the kiss should guide it;
  Oh, cruel I, to intercept it!

                                   SHELLEY.


FROM “THE LOVER’S CREED.”

  I believe if I should die,
  And you should kiss my eyelids when I lie
    Cold, dead, and dumb to all the world contains,
  The folded orbs would open at your breath,
  And, from its exile in the Isles of Death,
    Life would come gladly back along my veins.


NATURE’S MINISTRATIONS.

                    Nature’s voice
  Bids thee hie fieldward and rejoice;
  She calls thee from unhallowed mirth
  To walk with beauty o’er the earth;
  Proudly she calls thee forth, and now
  Prints blandest kisses on thy brow;
  On lip, on cheek, on bosom bare,
  She pours the balmy morning air.

                             MOTHERWELL.


“GENTLEST OF MY FRIENDS.”

        The branches of the trees
    Bend down thy touch to meet,
  The clover-blossoms in the grass
    Rise up to kiss thy feet.

                        LONGFELLOW.


THE RELEASED CAPTIVE.

  The hour which back to summer’s light
  Calls the worn captive, with the gentle kiss
  Of winds, and gush of waters, and the sight
  Of the green earth.

                                   MRS. HEMANS.


FROM “PHILASTER.”

  Let me love lightning, let me be embraced
  And kissed by scorpions, or adore the eyes
  Of basilisks, rather than trust the tongues
  Of hell-bred women.

                        BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.


FROM “THE TRAITOR.”

                            Does not
  That death’s head look most temptingly? the worms
  Have kissed the lips off.

                                            SHIRLEY.


FROM “THE DYING SOLDIER.”

  And here upon the battle ground,
    Exhausted with the march and fight,
    And sickened with the dreary sight
  Of the red carnage all around,
  I sigh to taste one cooling breath
    Blown from the icy hills and sea;
    Then welcome as a bride’s to me
  Would be the gentle kiss of Death.


MARY IN HEAVEN.

  Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore
  O’erhung with wild woods thickening green.

                                      BURNS.


QUEEN GUINEVERE.

  A man had given all other bliss,
  And all his worldly worth, for this,
  To waste his whole heart on one kiss
        Upon her perfect lips.

                              TENNYSON.


THE PARTING.


          The trance gave way
  To those caresses, when a hundred times
  In that last kiss, which never was the last,
  Farewell, like endless welcome, lived and died.

                                        TENNYSON.


THE POET’S FOOD.

  Nor seeks nor finds he mortal blisses,
  But feeds on the aërial kisses
  Of shapes that haunt Thought’s wildernesses.

                                      SHELLEY.


SLEEP.

  Sleep, the fresh dew of languid love, the rain
  Whose drops quench kisses till they burn again.

                                         SHELLEY.


THE KISS IN ENIGMA.

  I am just two and two, I am warm, I am cold,
  And the parent of numbers that cannot be told;
  I am lawful, unlawful,—a duty, a fault;
  I am often sold dear, good for nothing when bought;
  An extraordinary boon, and a matter of course,
  And yielded with pleasure—when taken by force.[33]

                                              COWPER.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A lady gave a gift, which she had not,
  And I received her gift, which I took not;
  She gave it me willingly, and yet she would not;
  And I received it, albeit I could not;
  If she gives it me, I force not,
  And if she takes it again, she cares not.
  Construe what this is, and tell not;
  For I am fast sworn, I may not.

                                            WYATT.

       *       *       *       *       *

  A lady once did ask of me
  This pretty thing in privity:
  Good sir, quoth she, fain would I crave
  One thing which you yourself not have;
  Nor never had yet in times past,
  Nor never shall while life doth last;
  And if you seek to find it out,
  You lose your labor out of doubt.
  Yet, if you love me as you say,
  Then give it me, for sure you may.

                               GASCOIGNE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The instant I’m born, though my frame is quite weak,
  Most wondrous to utter, I smartly can speak;
  My parents are pleased, and greatly rejoice,
  And seem quite enraptured to hear my sweet voice;
  But short, ah! too short is the time that I stay,
  For when I’ve done speaking I languish away;
  Yet this to my parents but seldom gives pain,
  For they with a touch can call life back again!
  Now all ye fair girls, and ye cheerful young swains,
  Come search for my name and take me for your pains.

       *       *       *       *       *

What part of speech is a kiss?—A conjunction.

What is the shape of a kiss?—A-lip-tickle.

Why is a kiss like a sermon?—Because it requires, at least, two heads and
an application.

Why is a kiss like a rumor?—Because it goes from mouth to mouth.

When is a man like a spoon?—When he touches a lady’s lips without kissing
them.

When are kisses sweetest?—When _syrup_-titiously obtained.

Why are two young ladies kissing each other an emblem of
Christianity?—Because they are doing to each other as they would men
should do unto them.


PROVERBS AND PROVERBIAL PHRASES.

Kissing goes by favor.

If you can kiss the mistress, never kiss the maid.

Many kiss the child for the nurse’s sake.

She would rather kiss than spin.

Better kiss a knave than be troubled with him.

He that kisseth his wife in the market-place shall have enough to teach
him.

To kiss a man’s wife, or wipe his knife, is but a thankless office.

Kisses are the messengers of love.

Kiss and be friends.

None kitheth like the lithping lath (lass).

There’s something in a kiss that never comes amiss.

Stolen kisses are sweet.

Kissing is the prologue to sin.

Kissing is lip-service.

As easy as kiss your hand.

Kisses are the interrogation-points in the literature of love.

A sweetmeat which satisfies the hunger of the heart.

Cherries kiss as they grow.


GEMS OF THOUGHT.

A kiss from my mother made me a painter.

                                                            BENJAMIN WEST.

       *       *       *       *       *

I came to feel how far above all fancy, pride, and fickle maidenhood, all
earthly pleasure, all imagined good, was the warm tremble of a devout
kiss.

                                                                    KEATS.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is delightful to kiss the eyelashes of the beloved—is it not? But
never so delightful as when fresh tears are on them.

                                                                   LANDOR.

       *       *       *       *       *

The fragrant infancy of opening flowers flowed to my senses in that
opening kiss.

                                                                 SOUTHERN.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kisses are like grains of gold or silver found upon the ground, of no
value themselves, but precious as showing that a mine is near.

                                                          GEORGE VILLIERS.

       *       *       *       *       *

The first lesson which the infant is taught is to kiss; it is at once the
language of infancy and the currency of childhood. The little passionless
face as it rests upon its mother’s bosom is moulded into smiles by a
kiss, and thus by love’s fruit sweet echo is produced. Who shall tell the
mystery, the deep love and earnestness, the quiet joy, the proud hope, of
a mother’s kiss? and what brow or cheek of all that have gone forth into
the wide, wide world, but wears this heavenly jewel, as imperishable as
the glance of a diamond?

       *       *       *       *       *

  Like Dian’s kiss, unasked, unsought,
  Love gives itself, but is not bought.

                            LONGFELLOW.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Pant on thy lip, and to thy heart be pressed;
  Give all thou canst—and let me dream the rest.

                                           POPE.

       *       *       *       *       *

  The gilliflower, the rose, is not so sweet
  As sugared kisses be when lovers meet.

                                      BURTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

Kisses are like creation, because they are made out of nothing and are
very good.

                                                                SAM SLICK.

       *       *       *       *       *

                        He hath at will
  More quaint and subtle ways to kill;
  A smile or kiss, as he will use the art,
  Shall have the cunning skill to break a heart.

                                        SHIRLEY.

       *       *       *       *       *

You may conquer with the sword, but you are conquered by a kiss.

                                                                 HEINSIUS.

       *       *       *       *       *

Oliver Wendell Holmes says a kiss is “the twenty-seventh letter of the
alphabet,—the love-labial which it takes two to speak plainly.”

       *       *       *       *       *

I put my lips to the panel of the door, as a kiss for my dear, and came
quietly down again, thinking that one of these days I would confess to
the visit.

                                                                  DICKENS.

       *       *       *       *       *

I picture you to myself as my hand glides over the paper. I think I see
you, as you look on these words, and envy them the gaze of those dark
eyes. Press your lips to the paper. Do you feel the kiss that I leave
there?

                                                            BULWER-LYTTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

He, from his very birth, cut off from the social ties of blood,—no
mother’s kiss to reward the toils, or gladden the sports, of
childhood,—no father’s cheering word up the steep hill of man.

                                                            BULWER-LYTTON.

       *       *       *       *       *

Many a man and woman has been incensed and worshiped, and has shown no
more feeling than is to be expected from idols. There is yonder statue in
St. Peter’s, of which the toe is worn away with kisses, and which sits,
and will sit eternally, prim and cold.

                                                                THACKERAY.

       *       *       *       *       *

  Now let me say good-night, and so say you:
  If you will say so, you shall have a kiss.

                                 SHAKSPEARE.




FOOTNOTES


[1] The ancients supposed that honey contained a tenth part of nectar,
and therefore the lips of Lydia were imbued with double the nectar
bestowed on honey.

[2] Ulysses had been sent by Agamemnon to the offended Achilles to induce
him to return, but was treated by the latter with disdain, hence the
importunity of Briseis.

[3] “Os parvum decensque labia corallini coloris ad morsum aptissima.”

[4] “Teneris labellis molles morsiunculæ.”

[5] The temple of Jupiter Ammon and the tomb of Battus, founder of the
city of Cyrene, were four hundred miles apart, the intervening space
being a waste of sand.

[6]

  What more? All’s not enough: mix all t’express
  My dear girl’s morning kisses’ sweetnesses.
  You’d know her name? I’ll naught but kisses tell;
  I doubt, I swear, you’d know her fain too well.

                            _Old MS. 16th. Century._

[7] Tennyson.

[8] The Duke of Clarence to Lady E. Beauchamp.

[9] Ruprecht may be called the Father Nicholas, who comes on Christmas
eve and plays all sorts of tricks.

[10] The pax is a piece of board having the image of Christ upon the
cross on it, which the people used to kiss after the service was ended,
that ceremony being considered the kiss of peace.

[11] The admirers of Robert Burns will remember the lines:

  “——bent on winning borough towns,
  Come shaking hands wi’ wabster loons,
    And kissing barefit carlins.”

[12] An actual expression of a child.

[13] Francesca da Rimini.

[14] Mr. Longfellow translates the passage thus:

  “Alone we were and without any fear.
  Full many a time our eyes together drew
  That reading, and drove the color from our faces;
  But one point only was it that o’ercame us,
  Whenas we read of the much-longed-for smile
  Being by such a noble lover kissed,
  This one, who ne’er from me shall be divided,
  Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.”

                                      _Inferno_, v.

[15] Burns.

[16] Neck.

[17] “But I think my heart was e’en sairer when I saw that hellicat
trooper, Tam Halliday, kissing Jenny Dennison afore my face. I wonder
women can hae the impudence to do sic things; but they are a’ for the
redcoats.”—SCOTT: _Old Mortality_.

[18] “The Merry Pranks of Robin Goodfellow,” from which this stanza is
taken, though attributed to Ben Jonson, is not found among his works.

[19] Shakspeare, it will be observed, represents Hermione as a _colored_
statue. Paulina will not allow it to be touched, because the paint is not
yet dry.

[20] A kiss appears to have been an established incident in ancient
English marriage ceremonies.

[21] That by the impression of my kiss forever remaining on thy hand,
thou mightst think on those lips through which a thousand sighs will be
breathed for thee.

[22] A kiss was anciently in England the established fee of a lady’s
partner. The custom is still prevalent among some of the country-people.

[23] Thus Bassanio, in “The Merchant of Venice,” when he kisses Portia:

            “Fair lady, by your leave,
  I come by note to _give_ and to _receive_.”

[24] Queen Mab.

[25] Probable allusion to the kissing comfits mentioned by Falstaff,
“Merry Wives,” v. 5.

[26] The poet here, no doubt, copied from the mode of his own time, since
kissing a lady in a public assembly was not then thought indecorous. In
King Henry VIII., Act i., scene v., Lord Sands is represented as kissing
Anne Boleyn, next whom he sat at supper.

[27] The handkerchief.

[28] In the serious treatment of this idea the following lines from
Whittier’s “Angels of Buena Vista” are among the most beautiful:

  “Whispered low the dying soldier, pressed her hand and faintly smiled:
  Was that pitying face his mother’s? did she watch beside her child?
  All his stranger words with meaning her woman’s heart supplied;
  With her kiss upon his forehead, ‘Mother,’ murmured he, and died.”

[29] The readers of Byron’s “Don Juan” will remember the wish

  “That womanhood had but one rosy mouth,
  To kiss them all at once, from North to South.”

[30] This epigram, though taken from the French, may be traced back to
the Latin Anthology:

  “Kisses my Phillis takes, but ne’er bestows:
  Taking’s all one with giving, Phillis knows.”

[31] There is a similar point in a Greek epigram of Strato:

  “While thus a few kisses I steal,
    Dear Chloris, you bravely complain;
  If resentment you really do feel.
    Pray give me my kisses again.”

[32] Mrs. Thomson, in her “Life of Sarah, Duchess of Marlborough,” says:

“The proud Duke of Somerset married twice. His second duchess once tapped
him familiarly on the shoulder with her fan; he turned round, and, with
an indignant countenance, said, ‘My first duchess was a Percy, and she
never took such a liberty.’”

[33] This riddle was originally published in the “Gentleman’s Magazine.”
A correspondent furnished the following answer:

    “A riddle by Cowper
    Made me swear like a trooper;
  But my anger, alas! was in vain;
    For, remembering the bliss
    Of beauty’s soft kiss,
  I now long for such riddles again.”




INDEX.


  THE KISS IN HISTORY.
    _Diversities in the Bible_, 10.
    _Freaks and Phases of Local Custom_, 56.
      Arabian Salutation, 78.
      Blarney Stone, 68.
      Custom of Kissing Hands, 61.
      Dangerous Game, 89.
      Detective Utility, 92.
      French Cheapening and Degeneracy, 74.
      Husking-Frolics, 83.
      Kiss for a Vote, 73.
      Kiss-me-quick, 83.
      Kiss of Peace, 56.
      Kissing Dances, 74.
      Kissing Hands in Austria, 76.
      Kissing in China, 80.
      Kissing the Pope’s Toe, 70.
      Latter-day Kiss of Peace, 91.
      National Differences, 92.
      New-Year’s Day in New Amsterdam, 81.
      New York Drummer’s Predicament, 88.
      Old Roman Code, 79.
      Paraguayan Compulsion, 87.
      Pompeian Tokens, 77.
      Question of Taste, 90.
      Royal Feet-Washing and Kissing, 58.
      Taking Toll at the Bridge, 84.
      Templar Interdiction, 77.
      Under the Mistletoe, 63.
      Wedding Ceremony in Turkey, 79.
    _Kiss Imprimis_, 9.
    _Memorable Kisses_, 41.
    _Significance among the Hebrews_, 9.
    _Traces in English History_, 33.

  THE KISS IN POETRY.
      Anacreontic, 100.
      Blooming Nelly, 101.
      Bonnie Peggy Alison, 103.
      Cock and Fox, 99.
      Consecration, 115.
      Dinna kiss afore Folk, 104.
      Dinner and a Kiss, 112.
      Don Juan and Haidee, 104.
      First Kiss of Love, 105.
      Five Twices, 126.
      Give me Kisses, 111.
      Glove, The, 95.
      Hint, A, 113.
      How it happened, 118.
      In Ambush, 119.
      Ines sent a Kiss to me, 97.
      Julia’s Kiss, 107.
      Kiss, A, 126.
      Kiss at the Door, 125.
      Kiss, The, 95.
      Kiss, The, 108.
      Kiss, The, A Dialogue, 93.
      Kisses, 110.
      Kisses To-Day, 114.
      Landlady’s Daughter, 101.
      Long Branch Episode, 120.
      Nursery Rhymes, 128.
      Parting Kiss, The, 96.
      Platonic Kisses, 116.
      Rhapsodies, 130.
      Siren’s Song, 94.
      Sonnet upon a Stolen Kiss, 93.
      Teacher and Pupil, 106.
      Thine at Last, 106.
      Three Kisses, 121.
      Throwing Kisses, 114.
      To a Child embracing his Mother, 109.
      To a Lady on her translation of Voiture’s Kiss, 108.
      To Charis, 96.
      To my Love, 112.
      Too Old for Kisses, 123.
      Under the Rose, 115.
      Wandering Knight’s Song, 98.
      Wedding Song, 124.
      Yielding to Temptation, 97.
    _Basia of Johannes Secundus_, 170.
    _Excerpts from the Poets_, 132.
    _Extracts from the Old Ballads_, 153.
    _Humors of Verse_, 158.
      Ancient Spanish Lyric, 168.
      Auld Wifie, 160.
      Ballad of the Oysterman, 167.
      Beware of Paint, 164.
      Broken Pitcher, 168.
      Caprice, 161.
      Carlo and Sally, 161.
      Dance about the May-pole, 159.
      Delia’s Handkerchief, 162.
      Dumbarton’s Drums, 163.
      Kissing no Sin, 160.
      Kissing the Rod, 162.
      King Keder, 161.
      Mock Heroics, 158.
      Noses, 164.
      On refusing Angeline a Kiss, 158.
      Publican’s Daughter, 162.
      Robin Goodfellow, 163.
      Shadows, The, 165.
      Smack in School, 166.
      Souter and his Sow, 160.

  THE KISS IN DRAMATIC LITERATURE.
    _Selections from Shakspeare_, 191.
      Alfieri, 221.
      Beaumont and Fletcher, 212.
      Ben Jonson, 209.
      Browning, Mrs., 223.
      Bulwer-Lytton, 221.
      Dryden, 219.
      Ford, 217.
      Goethe, 221.
      Goldsmith, 219.
      Heywood, 218.
      Knowles, 220.
      Lansdowne, 219.
      Lilly, 214.
      Longfellow, 221.
      Marlowe, 215.
      Marston, 215.
      Massinger, 216.
      Mitford, 223.
      Otway, 219.
      Procter, 223.
      Schiller, 220.
      Shirley, 218
      Talfourd, 222.
      Tennyson, 224.

  THE KISS IN FICTION.
    _Eighteenth and Nineteenth Century Novels_, 225.
      Selections from Richardson, Mrs. Behn, Jane Porter, Thackeray,
        Dickens, Victor Hugo, Reade, Mühlbach, W. Scott, Hawthorne,
        Kingsley, Zchokke, Brontë, Disraeli, Bulwer-Lytton, Warren, and
        others, 225.

  THE KISS IN HUMOROUS STORY AND ANECDOTE.
      All-embracing Inclusion, 295.
      Amorous Western Youth, 281.
      Awakening, The, 291.
      Baffled Courtier, 286.
      Clergyman’s Joke, A, 288.
      Early Discrimination, 285.
      Father Tom and the Pope, 273.
      First Kiss, The, 293.
      Jean Paul’s Schoolboy Experience, 292.
      Kissing the Feet, 294.
      Kiss in the Dark, 296.
      Let me Kiss him for his Mother, 290.
      Love in a Street-Car, 282.
      Student of Upsala, 276.
      Sudden Attachment, 284.
      Taking Toll, 283.
      Thankful Spirit, A, 287.
      Tunnel Stories, 278.
    _Budget of Facetiæ_, 299.
    _Prenticeana_, 318.

  MISCELLANEOUS ASPECTS AND RELATIONS.
    _Qualitative Analysis_, 321.
      Composition of a Kiss, 324.
      Philosophy of Kissing, 322.
      Science of Kissing, 322.
      Sound of a Kiss, 324.
    _The Dangerous Side_, 326.
      Legal View, 326.
      Medical View, 331.
    _The Sorrowful Side_, 339.
      After the Ball, 341.
      After the Wedding, 342.
      Barbara, 351.
      Chevy-Chase, 345.
      Consumption, 351.
      Death of an Infant, 350.
      Death of a Friend’s Child, 351.
      Dying Injunction, 347.
      Earl March’s Daughter, 346.
      Enoch Arden, 349.
      Evangeline, 350.
      Exiles, The, 348.
      Faithful unto Death, 347.
      Highland Mary, 351.
      I want to find my Papa, 352.
      Jephthah’s Daughter, 349.
      King of France’s Daughter, 346.
      Last Observance, 348.
      Margaret, 339.
      Œnone, 349.
      Old Love, The, 345.
      Orate hic pro me, 348.
      Over the Starry Way, 350.
      Penalty of Harshness, 353.
      Quarrel and Reconciliation, 350.
      Virginia, 353.
      Welcome Home, 341.
    _The Treacherous Side_, 333
      Algerine Revenge, 335.
      All for Show, 336.
      Artifice, 339.
      Conspiracy against Edward II., 338.
      Cupid’s Wiles, 339.
      Descent from the Tree, 337.
      Fabulla, 336.
      False Lady, 337.
      Gay Deceiver, 338.
      Judas Kiss, 334.
      Kiss Fuliginous, 336.
      Lady Bothwell’s Lament, 338.
      Lures of the Enchantress, 339.
      Madame de Staël’s Hypocrisy, 333.
      Perjury, 338.
      Wife’s Infidelity, 334.
      Woman, 337.
    _The Kiss in Enigma_, 373.
    _The Kiss in Epigram_, 356.
      Ancient Maiden’s Lament, 358.
      Bianca’s Dream, 360.
      Casuistry, 356.
      Declining a Kiss, 359.
      Difference, The, 356.
      Difference, The, 362.
      Disappointment, The, 359.
      Earliest Recollection, 359.
      Foolish Robin, 357.
      Forgiveness, 363.
      Honey-Moon, The, 361.
      Inventor of Kissing, 363.
      Lady Stung by a Bee, 364.
      Modesty, 356.
      Moustaches, 358.
      No Doubt of It, 361.
      Non-Computation, 360.
      Painted Lady in Olden Time, 364.
      Printer’s Kisses, 357.
      Reason Why, 362.
      Rebus, A, 361.
      Rights of Men, 363.
      Sealing an Oath, 358.
      Source of Life and Death, 364.
      Stakes, The, 358.
      Stolen Kisses, 362.
      Tulips and Roses, 357.
    _The Kiss in Metaphor_, 365.
      Autumn, 366.
      Crimson Sunset, 367.
      Evening Wind, 366.
      From Anacreon, 369.
      From Philaster, 371.
      From Plato, 370.
      From The Dying Soldier, 371.
      From The Lover’s Creed, 370.
      From The Psalms, 368.
      From The Traitor, 371.
      Gentlest of My Friends, 371.
      Growing Corn, 368.
      Light from the Tomb, 367.
      Light-house, The, 368.
      Love’s Philosophy, 369.
      Mary in Heaven, 372.
      Moon-beam, The, 367.
      Morning Song, 365.
      Nature’s Ministrations, 370.
      Paraphrase, 368.
      Parting, The, 372.
      Poet’s Food, 372.
      Queen Guinevere, 372.
      Released Captive, 371.
      Sleep, 372.
      Spring, 365.
      Spring Flowers, 365.
      Spring Song, 366.
      Sunrise on the Hills, 365.
      Time and Tide, 367.
      To Celia, 369.
      Violets, The, 366.
    _The Kiss in Proverbs_, 375.
    _Gems of Thought_, 376.

[Illustration]




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